The end of life as we know it

Time doesn't ever seem to get any slower, and it's truly scary to realise just how much time I've let slip since my last blog update. Each day flies by, even the ones where I look back and ask myself 'What did I achieve today', and don't answer because I know the reply will make me more frustrated.

Little wonder then, that the blog has fallen behind. In truth, there's a lot to tell, although I'm not sure how much is blog-worthy; but as the ultimate intention of writing the blog was not to make a sensational novel, rather to make a record of the trials and tribulations of aliyah, both for ourselves, and for those who may one day follow in our footsteps, I suppose I'll endeavour to plod on.

I'm writing this on a plane, on the way back to Israel after an impromptu visit to the UK for the unexpected funeral of my uncle Leon z"l. I truly stand at a turning point in life, and the emotions and feelings that course through me are profound. In five days' time, I will commence my 18 months of service in the Israel Defence Force.

This is a moment I have dreamed of for a decade; to be part of something I believe in; to live and work and fight for something bigger and greater than me or my future; to contribute to freedom, democracy and Zionism. To feel part of the pioneers who re-created the Jewish state; to protect my people and proudly proclaim 'Never Again'. For ten years, I have seen pictures, heard testimonies, read stories of life in the army, and I wouldn't let anything stand in the way of that.

Gradually, reality can creep up on you. I was under no illusions of the difficulties of life in Israel or the army, and I knew what I was letting myself in for. But what neither I nor Deborah anticipated is that our goodwill and devotion to our country may not necessarily be reciprocated, or at least may not be clearly shown.

It's several months since I turned up for my first meeting with the army - back in about November I was called into the recruitment office in Jerusalem, where a very friendly and polite child (well, perhaps 18) interviewed me on every aspect of my life, from my religious views, to my hobbies, to my kindergarten, before sending me on for a physical where a large Russian lady criticised my hairy naevi, and finally on to a psychometric exam where I had to match up the funny shapes. Some weeks later, I was summoned to the medical corps HQ near Tel Aviv; the 3 hour journey each way for a ten minute meeting in which I was told very little was somewhat frustrating, but at least I found out that I would start army service in April, giving me a chance to notify work, family and friends, and create a plan for the next few years of my life; that said, I was advised to call 2 days later to get the exact date.

2 months later, much nagging, and wasted phone calls, I was still not informed of a start date; with just 12 weeks until Passover (one of the main Jewish festivals, this year in late April), and various friends and family planning to visit, it became clear that I should cut my losses, and assume for the worst - so all flights and holidays were booked up until the end of March, just to play it safe.

When I was resummoned to the base, with a few days notice in late January, I finally got some info; a salary, details of the appalling terms of my annual leave and home leave, and a start date of March the 8th, because the stupid woman who coordinates all army doctors forgot that there was a special doctors course I needed to do first, before the normal call up date. Without apology, regret for the inconvenience and waste of money to my friends and family due to be visiting in March, I was informed that this was unchangeable. In addition, I was advised that I can expect to see Deborah every other weekend, and one evening a week for the week I don't get home at the weekend, assuming I'm close enough to Jerusalem to get home in time. Oh, and that I'm entitled to 15 days of leave each year.

In one day, it became clear to me how much life had changed; all the decisions and plans I had made before marrying Deborah, which were panning out beautifully, were no longer what I wanted in life. Feeling for the first time like a machine owned by the army, with no consideration for my personal life, let alone that of my wife, I was drained and powerless. The goodwill on my side, to do my bit for the country, was irrelevant, because at the end of the day, one still approaches the army with the resentment and anger of someone forced into compulsory service, unsure of what the future holds, hearing horror stories from ex-soldiers of hygiene, food, corruption and battle.

And for what? It's a rhetorical question, as I know precisely what it's all about. But why me, and why now? As my friends around us become more established, pop out babies left, right and centre (though mainly centre), do we have the patience to put life on hold for all this extra time?

Gradually, I have accepted what lies before me, and perhaps some of the excitement has come back. I'm sure that I will become a stronger person through the experiences ahead, and perhaps a stronger doctor, too. Deborah will be looked after by our friends around us, and I expect that 18 months will fly by if I'm kept busy. The next time I write a blog entry, I'll be a solider.

If the law in an ass, the police must be law holes

Two police experiences over the past 12 months.

I like to consider myself a law-abiding citizen. I have, from time to time, be known to speed; once I think I reached 82mph on a motorway, before I realised and promptly reduced my speed to the much more legal 77mph (allowing the 10% margin for error on the police radar speed traps). As I routinely get overtaken by BMWs doing 120mph, and watch numerous women in 4x4s chatting on their iPhones while smoking and applying lipstick, while simultaneously breastfeeding their children, I feel this must put me at least above average when it comes to citizen obedience. And, to be honest, I kind of like being a good boy. It’s nice to think that you aren’t doing anything to risk the safety or convenience of those around you, and it’s even nicer to think that you can sneer at those people who ruin this world for the rest of us, by not adhering to the laws we are all meant to live by. How unfortunate then, that the Israeli police force have reduced me to a common criminal.

Israel seems to think that America is right. About everything. Ever. Need to increase efficiency in the educational system? Send a delegation to New York to look at how they deal with inner city school kids (because New York is known for its obedient school kids and calm atmosphere). Worried about the 2% increase in costs of maintaining the socialised health care system, one of the best in the world? Bring over some US health care consultants, who manage the most overpriced and inefficient health care system in the world. Need to make some stupid laws that have absolutely no relevance, logic, or application in real life? Take a US highway code and translate it into Hebrew.

Deborah and I were on our way to dinner. It was just after our Hebrew course exam, and we decided that we would celebrate. We got off our first bus, walked to the pedestrian crossing, and waited. Being so well planned, there is no button to press to declare that you are waiting. There are no sensors monitoring the flow of cars so that the lights will change when no cars are coming. But, the government have to spend our money on something, so they employ two pigs to sit in a car on a dark side-road, watching and waiting, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting victims. People like us, who lose patience while standing for minutes at a time, watching as no cars come or go in any direction. People who see their bus pull in and pull out of the bus stop, while they remain stood on the spot, all because the stupid arse of a little man is quite happy being red, and has no intention of turning green at any time soon. In fact, he won’t turn green until the traffic light turns red. And the traffic light, as we all know, will only turn red when he sees that a dozen cars are on the way, all waiting to get through.

So, we look, and we wait. We look again. No cars. Anywhere. We cross. And immediately are confronted by a particularly small girl, dressed all grown up in a police uniform, just like a real person, who gleefully gives us both jay walking tickets.

But that isn’t the worst of it. That’s just the beginning.

My parents came over to visit recently. We had a fantastic schedule all sorted out for their visit, the highlight of which was taking them up North to see the beautiful countryside, places we might want to move to after Jerusalem, and best of all, to take my dad to a vegetarian village in the middle of nowhere, with lots of cats. (Basically dad’s Garden of Eden).

Keen to spend more of our tax money on pointless endeavours, we were pulled over at midnight in the middle of the countryside by a particularly small girl, dressed all grown up in a police uniform, like a real person (sound familiar?), for a routine check. No problem, you smile, you give over your license, and half a minute later, you carry on your journey. Not this time.

I handed over my UK license, but made the mistake of speaking in good Hebrew. As a result, I received an interrogation about when I came to live in Israel – nine months earlier at this point. After disappearing off with my documents for a while, she returned, smile on face, and said, “Adam, you’re driving illegally. Step out of the car”.

According to the little brat, a foreign license can only be used for 6 months after moving to Israel. I told her that was incorrect, and in fact it is valid for 12 months. I quoted pretty much every aliyah organisation that gives information on these matters, and even checked some online at that point to show her – the Jewish Agency for Israel, the United Jewish Israel Appeal, Nefesh B’Nefesh, the Association of Americans and Canadians in Israel, and numerous blogs and advice websites, all state that the license is valid for one year. She checked with her boss, however, and confirmed that in fact, all these organisations were giving out wrong information. I should print out and keep all the documentation from these websites, because I would need it 6 months later when I attended for my COURT SUMMONS.

When I explained this to mum and dad, I almost had to physically restrain my parents who were about to assault a very obnoxious little girl, but while I was doing so, at midnight, Deborah called our driving instructor. He was very helpful, and got out of bed to check the website of the Ministry of Transport....

We all breathed a collective sigh of relief when he confirmed that, clear as day, the Ministry of Transport website states that ‘New Immigrants may drive on a foreign passport for up to 12 months from entry into the country.’.

Time for an apology from the police woman, and to be sent on our way? No.

“I don’t care what the Ministry of Transport says. We are the police, and we go by police law, it's different”. Those words actually came out of her mouth.

So, to cut a long story short, we persuaded her not to impound the hire car that was registered in my dad’s name, and she changed my police appearance that she'd originally set for 48 hours time on the other side of the country, to the next morning, down the road. This gave me just enough time to print out information from the ministry of transport, and www.gov.il, stating that I was in fact driving legally, and that she was simply an idiot.

The bottom line, the next morning all was resolved, the court summons was cancelled (supposedly, although in fact they forgot to do this until I called a few weeks later to check), and she got woken up by the captain for a proper yelling. But, even then, the police failed to do their job – I was informed I must give in all the tickets and documentation to the station, thus removing any proof that the incident ever occurred, and hence stopping me making a complaint against them.

“I’d like to keep copies for reference, until I know that everything has been cancelled. Could I make photocopies?” I asked.

“No, the machine is broken.” Replied the commander.

“What about the fax machine that you just received my passport page on?”

“No, that doesn't copy. And anyway, isn’t my word good enough for you?”

No, Mr Policeman, your word means nothing.