CLOSE UP
-
t:::*. __,__ - t
- . 3 - - ------
V,----
,- --- ,- ....--- - ,-:,_
,- -4.-
,- -,----,----,-.-.-
-
h;...1. - --, --,,
1 .--=-_
,-
---,- .---,
.. --,
- ---
.,"---
,--
- - -
1
-
,
-
. -----3.,
---,
-
- --,-.
--,
'" - ,_ - .- , - ,
, -•- ---_,..
-..
■
Itleccorrie ot Dirty V'Vcorcl?
en Meir and
Ayala Jedwab left
Israel in 1968,
they planned on
returning in five
years.
Settling in Oak
Park, the Jedwabs enrolled
their sons, Alon and Zvi, now
called Alan and Steve, in
public schools. The Jedwabs
found jobs, they bought a
home, they made new friends.
Almost 25 years later,
the Jedwabs still talk
about returning to Israel.
They are among at least
350 local Israeli families
registered with the Aliyah
Desk, according to Sivan
Maas, Detroit's community
shlichah, or emissary.
Like many yordim,
Israelis who live abroad,
the Jedwabs haven't given
up hope of one day return-
ing to Israel. And like most
Israelis who left Israel, the
Jedwabs bristle at being
referred to as yordim,
which in Hebrew literally
means to descend.
Making aliyah, or mov-
ing to Israel, has long been
considered a religious, or
spiritually elevating act.
One goes up to Israel, not
down, since the Torah con-
siders it the highest point
on earth.
Yeridah (descend) is by
definition the opposite of
aliyah (ascend), and it has
taken on a pejorative con-
notation, implying
betrayal, sometimes
cowardice.
In short, yeridah, the act
of leaving Israel, has
evolved into a "dirty
word."
Mr. and Mrs. Jedwab,
who recently spent six
weeks in Israel, balk at the
term with all its negative
implications. Despite the
life they've built for them-
selves in Detroit, they still
consider themselves
24
FRIDAY, AUGUST 2, 1991
Israeli. They still consider
Israel home.
"Somewhere along the
way, we got sidetracked,"
Mr. Jedwab said from his
home in West Bloomfield.
"But we never cut our ties
with Israel, or stopped
speaking Hebrew or
reading Israeli news-
papers. We know about
everything that's going on
over there.
"It got easier and easier
to put off going back," he
said. "When you feel the
country will always be
there, you don't think
about going back as often."
Mrs. Jedwab, who was 5
when her parents
emigrated from Germany
to Israel, remembers how
hard she cried when she
left Israel.
"I didn't want to go,"
Mrs. Jedwab said.
"Whatever I had I was
happy. I cried for two years
in America."
For Mr. Jedwab, a veter-
an of three Israeli wars, the
move was necessary.
"I told my wife I had to go
out of the country for four
or five years," Mr. Jedwab
said. "A small country like
Israel can be choking at
times. I didn't run away. I
paid my dues. I shed my
blood for Israel."
Mr. Jedwab, who was
born in the center of Tel
Aviv hak'tanah, little Tel
Aviv (before it became in-
dustrialized), was 14 years
old when he joined the
Haganah, the forerunner of
the Israel Defense Force
before the War of In-
dependence in 1948.
"I trained as a tzofeh, a
scout," Mr. Jedwab said. "I
0
AMY J. MERCER
Staff Writer
learned how to protect my-
self with nothing but sticks
sometimes."
When Mr. Jedwab was
20, he fought in the Israeli
War of Independence. A
member of Givati, an elite
infantry unit, Mr. Jedwab
was injured in the battle of
Latrun, a strategic fort
built in the Ayalon Valley,
located between Tel Aviv
and Jerusalem.
"We went to war with
about seven tanks," Mr.
Jedwab said. "We were
outnumbered by the Arabs.
They started to hit us and
people were dying all
around me. Maybe 25 out
of 70 Jews survived.
"I was in the field when I
felt something pierce me
from behind," he said. "It
felt warm, so I reached
around my back and looked
at my hand. It was full of
blood. Then I lost con-
sciousness."
Mr. Jedwab, who was hit
by a whirling piece of
shrapnel, lay on the ground
for four hours until he was
taken to a small field
hospital in Rehovot and
then on to a hospital in
Petach Tikvah.
When sufficiently recov-
ered, Mr. Jedwab returned
to the army but was trans-
ferred to a different post.
"That's where I met
him," said Mrs. Jedwab,
who was a chayelet, a
female soldier. "He was my
sergeant major."
The couple married in
1951, after the war.
"Everything was ra-
tioned," Mr. Jedwab said.
"You couldn't find
anything on the white
market. I remember wak-
ing up at 4 a.m. to wait in
line for quart of milk.
"We had a small apart-
ment with one bedroom,
but we were happy," he
said. "I never heard any-