My Anticlimactic Arrival

I wanted for a while to sit down and write out the story of my arrival in Israel as an oleh chadash because I think it comically embodies the philosophy and motivations behind my aliyah as opposed to the standard narrative.


The standard narrative would have been taking one of those Nefesh B’Nefesh charter flights, which I chose not to do. The pshat of the matter is that the flight was two weeks before my ulpan program started and they weren’t allowing me to move into the absorption center early. I didn’t have anyone close enough that I would feel comfortable asking them to crash on their couch for two weeks and I was not interested in living out of a hostel with my entire life packed into three enormous suitcases.

But the deeper reason that I didn’t want to participate on the charter flight is because I’m not really so into the whole flag-waving, ground-kissing, soldier-hugging, two-thousand-years-yearning, “this was the most important decision of your life” crying-while-singing-hatikvah thing. No disrespect for it – I mean it sounds like it was an amazing experience for those that subscribe to it (and full disclosure: I have choked up once during hatikvah), I just couldn’t see myself running down the steps of the airplane with an Israeli flag/cape waving behind me to get a bracha from the Sharansky rebbe.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Israel. I made aliyah for gosh darn sake, and not just for the benefits (although the free flight, money, and grad school don’t hurt), I’m just not a very openly patriotic guy. I’ll put it this way – I don’t own anything with a Wisconsin emblem on it, I never went to a Badgers game, and my high school American history class was supplemented with a sprinkling of Howard Zinn. But I still love my alma mater and the country I grew up in.

I made aliyah because I love what Israel is and I love the potential that it has, but I try not to have any outdated romanticized ideas about it. I didn’t come here to live on a kibbutz, pick oranges, and dance around an olive grove while singing Hafinjan. I came to participate in modern Israeli society – to eat at kosher vegan restaurants, to fight for minority rights, to celebrate Hanukkah at my Capoeira class, to go crazy in Goa after my army service (okay that last one is tentative considering I’m only doing six months and not combat). All in all – I’m not a post-Zionist but I’m definitely not a traditional Zionist. Which is why I feel that my anticlimactic arrival in Ben Gurion airport is much more representative of modern day Israel that the ra-ra-ra arrival of almost everyone else.


I didn’t know anyone on my flight. I was supposed to fly with Tammy a day earlier but my connecting flight was cancelled and there is only one United flight a day from JFK. And because I was rebooked, I didn’t get the revered window seat so I didn’t get a nice view of Tel Aviv.
When the plane landed, I walked through the normal flight gate to get to the terminal since in modern day airports people don’t get let off onto the tarmac. But oh did I strut through that plastic tunnel. No one else knew but me but I was about to be crowned an Israeli citizen, with a temporary Israeli passport as my scepter and 800 shekels in cash as my royal treasury.
When I arrived at customs, I stood there for a bit, a little confused. I couldn’t go in the foreign passport aisle because I was expecting to get an Israeli passport, but I couldn’t go into the Israeli passport aisle because I hadn’t received it yet. I was expecting that at least somebody would be there to greet me, shake my hand, congratulate me, and help me through the process, but I looked around and no one was there (probably related to missing my original flight). I finally found a dusty old phone on a wall near the bathrooms with a sign above it that read “Direct to Misrad Hapnim” and a woman with a thick Russian accent picked up.

“Chello?”

“Um… My name is Eric… I just made aliyah?”

“What you do?”

“Oleh Chadash?”

“OK I come down.”

I waited a couple minutes and then a big fat barely Jewish looking lady waddled over to me from the elevator down the hall. She was wearing a blue uniform and nametag and an expression of irritability and ennui.

“You make aliyah?”

“Yes that’s me.”

“You come with me.”

We walked back over to the elevator that she came from and she hit the button for two floors up. I remember that elevator ride taking forever as I awkwardly stood there listening to this chubby bureaucrat’s heavy breathing. When we finally reached the office she gave me no more instructions other than to sit down in the waiting room as she disappeared into her tiny office to push more papers.

I sat in an uncomfortable couch facing a coffee table with no “Welcome to Israel” pamphlets or “Aerial Views of Israel” coffee table books on it. Beside me was a similar couch with another Russian woman sitting in it watching Russian television on the flatscreen across from me. I don’t think she was actually in that office for any other reason than to watch her teledramas about Svatya Shtolkyasmolenskysomething’s turbulent ballet career and immanent drug problem, because I didn’t see her move from that spot the whole time I was there, and I was there for a long time. And then there were some fake plastic houseplants and a little Nescafe station in the corner.

After waiting about an hour and watching a cute old Venezuelan couple get greeted by their orthodox daughter and her husband, a portly Sephardi man came out of door number two and sat me down at his desk. We worked through some paperwork and finally there were some moments where I got the Herzl butterflies in my belly. I got to choose the Hebrew spelling of my name, he took my pictures and handed me my official aliyah documentation, and I was escorted to get my free ride to Jerusalem which I shared with other members from my ulpan.


I can’t say it was a bad experience because while there were moments of boredom and confusion, I was ultimately amused by the whole situation. Dealing with Israeli bureaucracy has become somewhat of a staple of my aliyah experience, and furthermore, I got what I asked for by choosing not to take the charter flight. It didn’t have all the hype and excitement that it could have had, but at least I can say that it was genuine.

Jew-dapest

Just got back from Budapest and I have to admit - I was really impressed especially with the modern Jewish culture that surprised me with its existence. I never really had a desire to go to Budapest, it just happens to be a large city in proximity to Prague that is perfect for a cheap weekend trip, but after coming back I am definitely glad I went.

Before I arrived, I had learned a little bit about the history of the Jews in Hungary. Because of its relative distance from Germany and the status of many of the Jews in public affairs, they didn't receive as hard of a blow from the Nazis as other countries (e.g. the sheer amount of Satmar Hassidim who survived), although many were sent to concentration camps by the Arrow Cross Party, the Hungarian equivalent to the Nazi party. Currently, there are around 80,000 Jews in Budapest, the largest Jewish community in Eastern Europe. That huge number is due mostly to the Nazis late arrival in Hungary and the Hungarian government's policy during WWII where they preferred to ship off Jews from the countryside when the Nazis demanded them rather than city Jews who were valuable to the Hungarian economy.

While walking around the city, the Jewish culture was not so apparent except for the tourist attractions, something I have gotten used to in Prague (The Dohany Synagogue, pictured above, is the largest synagogue in Europe, 2nd largest in the world, and Neolog in its philosophy - an early European version of Conservative). It was nice to see a couple kosher restaurants, but I figured that the situation with the Jewish community was similar to that of communities in other post-Communist countries: Spiritually decimated by Stalinism, constant fear of antisemitism, and unwelcoming to others (even Jews) based in their difficult history. I soon found out that this is not necessarily the case.

While walking around the hip, young area of Budapest, formerly the Jewish ghetto, looking for hipster bars, we happened across a chill Bohemian art bar called Siraly that we had noticed earlier. We bought some beers, climbed up the spiral staircase, and sat on some couches in somewhat of a film library with a projector screen. Looking around the room, we noticed that there were framed blown-up photographs of Jewish interest: Yiddish culture, bearded rabbis, etc. Intrigued, I wandered around to see what else I could discover. I soon found canvasses with embroidered Hebrew on them, flyers for a Jewish film festival that was currently happening, and a pamphlet for a 4 day Jewish music festival that happens every summer. Then, to make things even better, I went into the basement to find the bathroom and happened across this unbelievable free-jazz show (free like improv not free like money, although it was free) with this amazing saxophonist and an out of control xylophonist and watched that for a while.

It just keeps getting better and better right? So as we're on our way out, I stop and ask the bartender, "so what's the deal? is this the hipster Jewish hangout?" and in response, two young guys come over from behind the bar and start speaking to me in Hebrew. I guess that was a yes. They start telling me how, while its true that there are a lot of uninvolved Jews, and that there is still visible antisemitism in Budapest, there is a thriving modern areligious community (complete with a secular Jewish high school, one of three) similar to what you would find in Brooklyn or San Franicisco. Turns out one of them is the guitarist for a funky Hebrew hiphop band called Hagesher and they told me that they could show us the hip Jewish sights. Unfortunately, we had to leave early the next morning but it is definitely a place I will have to come back to. He told me to check out the two main Jewish-hipsters-in-Budapest sights, Judapest (who calls Siraly the "non-official Jewish urban place") and Marom. After experiencing that unparalleled level of hasgacha pratit, I decided that this is definitely not my last time in Budapest.

Bein Hashmashot becomes a travel blog (for now)

Since I am now living Prague for the semester, I think that I will be using this blog as a travel journal so that people can check up on me if they are interested. I will try to stay up to date with Israeli politics on whatever else I’ve been writing about but I haven’t posted in a while anyways so I figured this would be a good way to keep in touch without sending out those annoying 5 page emails to everyone I know.

Yesterday I was sitting near the front of the tram with my roommate Dan, and seated in front of us was a blind, frail man in poor health probably in his late seventies. He had bandages over his eyes and sunglasses in front of those, he had a seeing-eye dog, and used metal crutches as it looked like he had some issues walking as well. He wore a bright yellow parka and a violin slung behind his back, possibly for street performing. He sat there peacefully moving his head around, humming softly to himself, and occasionally twitching mildly. As I watched this man, I kept looking back and forth from this man to the corporate chains that we were passing. As I noticed the Sony, the KFC, and the McDonald’s I began to think about how much Prague has changed during his lifetime and how he may be completely oblivious to it. He lived through Hitler’s occupation of the Czech Republic, he felt the communist control after that for 40 years, he was there for the Velvet Revolution in the late 80s, and he is surrounded by the modern capitalist mentality that has boosted the country’s economy yet permanently altered the culture. He probably has his route that he has taken every day for many years and the sudden changing aesthetic of the city may be beyond him. I felt bad thinking about that, and I started to think about how this new zeitgeist for the city is somewhat my fault as an American. Who knows if he prefers capitalism to communism, it may not make any difference at all to him as a sickly street musician, but I felt like I owed him some sort of obligation.

As he arrived towards his stop he began to stand up with the help of his crutches and he called out behind him in Czech. I don’t speak a word of Czech so it meant nothing to me, but in my head, I translated what he said as, “Youth! Can someone please give me a hand?” I looked over at Dan and saw that he was thinking that same thing as me, but none of the Czech people behind me were doing anything. The bus began to get a little bumpy as it took a sharp turn and I saw the man struggle to stay up on his crutches while he called out again behind him. I looked back at the Czechs again and saw that they were looking at me. They may have been staring at me as everyone has for just being American but I interpreted that look as, “It’s your move.” I then stood up and put my hand on his arm to let him know that I was there if he wanted my help. He said something to me in Czech which was either telling me to help him down the stairs or yelling at me to get off him. Since I had no idea what he said, I held him tighter and thought to myself, “This is my task, I have to finish it.”

When the tram came to a stop, I carefully supported his arm as he slowly made his way down. As he finished stepping off the tram he repeated “děkuji” (thank you – the only word I know) multiple times but as he overcame the last stair he turned around to look at me and said it louder. I don’t know if he wanted to emphasize his gratefulness or if I had irritated him by taking pity on him, but either way, getting looked in the face by a blind man is somewhat of a haunting feeling. As I sat back down, the entire tram was quiet and I wondered if what I did was right, and if the Czech people behind me thought I was an idiot or a good man. It didn’t seem to matter at that point because the deed was done, but the image of man’s face was implanted in my mind along with the added layer of my uncertainty at his motives for “looking” at me like that. I can see his scraggly white beard, impenetrable sunglasses, and furrowed brow very clearly in my mind and will continue to think about it until it gets overlaid with even more fascinating experiences.

Some of those include Leili forcing me to run through a street mall in order to get to a Beatles cover band show because it was too good to miss even a second of it. She was right.

Or tonight when Michael, my Czech roommate, brought us to a teahouse with floor pillows, hookah, tapestry-laiden cave alcoves and New-Agey medieval music. It felt like we were all hobbits being beckoned to return to the Shire.

On another note, tomorrow is going to be my first Shabbat in Prague. My program set up all the really Jewey kids in the center of town, a block away from the Jerusalem Synagogue, the most beautiful synagogue I’ve ever seen in my life. So that’s a plus. I will definitely go check that out. But I’m trying to decide if I’m going to start breaking Shabbat this semester. I don’t see how I can’t. What would I do, sit at home by myself all day. Even parts of the program are on Shabbat. If I want to have the best experience, I have to leave my safety zone, and unfortunately, that means I might have to leave my jewish zone at some points as well. I will at least make certain rules for myself like – I won’t do actual work or I won’t use my phone or computer. We’ll see how G-d feels about this in the afterlife but for now this decision is for myself and I think it’s the best one.