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FANTASY page 29
these days, the situation is dif-
ferent. Israel pulls. America
doesn't push. And if things
don't work out, contemporary
Americans — like their pre-
20th century European coun-
terparts — can always retrace
their steps.
"Our ancestors came to
America and Americans go to
Israel with utopian dreams.
They somehow think that
everything in the new world
will be wonderful. Of course,
these hopes lead to disappoint-
ment," Professor Sarna says.
The majority of Jewish im-
migrants to America started at
the bottom. They had no choice
but to recognize that life in ear-
ly 20th-century America re-
quired sweat and humility.
They worked as peddlers, in
garment factories. They rolled
cigars.
How many American Jewish
immigrants to Israel today
would start out on the lowest
rung? Not many. One repre-
sentative with a New York-
based Jewish agency remarked
that "the last thing Israel needs
is another rabbi."
Highly educated individuals
wait years for professorships.
Few Americans cross the ocean
with visions of ditch-digging,
road-building, clerking and
cleaning. Russian and Ethiopi-
an olim commonly serve in the
more menial jobs. It's that
push-pull factor again, Profes-
sor Sarna says.
"A Russian Jew today will
say, 'Better to sweep the floors
in Beersheba. At least I'll sur-
vive and my children will
achieve great heights.' But
Americans who can't find a job
at the level they want are very
likely to come back to America,
especially if the economy is
good."
Coming back, however,
sometimes commands a price,
emotionally, socially, spiritu-
ally. The very words aliyah and
yeridah (moving away from Is-
rael) are value-laden. The for-
mer means to ascend or rise up.
The latter indicates decline.
"I think the Jews who come
back to America from Israel ex-
perience a certain sense of sad-
ness and shame about not
having made it. The same is
true of immigrants to America
who went back to Europe and
didn't get rich," Professor Sar-
na says.
Jeremy Shere is leaving his
options open. The 24-year-old
University of Michigan gradu-
ate spent a year in Jerusalem
after receiving his diploma in
1994. He became an intern for
the Jerusalem Report maga-
zine — one of the few all-Eng-
lish publications around — but
concluded that journalism is a
tough road to travel without
mastery of the native tongue.
Considering aliyah, but de-
termined to dodge mistakes
most common to dream seek-
ers, Mr. Shere investigated no-
nonsense ways to prepare
himself for a possible move.
"If I go, I don't want to do it
in a half-baked way," he says.
While in Jerusalem, Mr.
Shere was accepted to the Uni-
versity of Michigan's law
school. After consulting Israeli
legal professionals, he decided
to enroll. The tentative agen-
da: Earn a graduate degree
and return to Israel well-
equipped to land a job in the
field or something closely re-
lated to law.
A plan, of course, offers no
guarantee of success, and for
Jews who arrive in Israel ex-
pecting the fantastic — people
dancing the hora in the streets,
eating falafel and walking
arm-in-arm to synagogue —
the Promised Land can fast be-
come a land of broken promis-
es.
Somebody's great-great-
grandfather once commented
that his journey from Europe
to America held a surprise. The
streets, it was rumored, were
paved with gold.
Great-Great_Grandpa ar-
rived to find it wasn't true. The
streets weren't paved with
gold. They weren't paved at all.
What's more, he had to pave
them.
So it is with many an immi-
grant experience. Aliyah is no
exception. Moving to Israel is
not a risk-free adventure. From
the hills around Jerusalem,
City of Gold, Ms. Levy weighs
the good with the bad.
"This is better for me," she
says. "Not for everyone. But for
most Americans, well, it's a
tough choice. I'd say they're
stuck somewhere over the At-
lantic." ❑