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PASSIOWFOR THE ROAD"'
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GIL PRATT
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EUROPEAN COLLECTIONS
5/1
1998
6
WEST BLOOMFIELD (248) 626-3362
SOUTHFIELD (248) 559 7818
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in fact, we personally have no need,
but wouldn't they make nice gifts?
And with that, my imagination
ran out of control. I pictured Israelis
— most of whom, I dare say, have
plenty of pots and pans — boxing
and wrapping their grocery store col-
lections, while nodding their heads
and agreeing that, as far as presents
go, the double-boiler is especially
fine. (And such a bargain, nu?)
Let me now digress in order to
clarify the REAL Israeli reaction to
Saddam Hussein's threats last
February. Once again, the media
wrote the script. I witnessed no
panic. In fact, people were so blase, I
was embarrassed to admit that I'd
actually bought plastic covering for
our windows.
"You're worried?" the neighbors
asked me, as though I needed psy-
chological help.
Succumbing, I'd laugh and shake
my head, "Course not. No. Na. I just
thought I'd, you know. Buy plastic."
News of Anthrax coincided with
my three-week vacation before school
began at Tel Aviv University. I used
my free time to write, something I
do best in coffee shops. One after-
noon, the bomb siren went off. Loud
and clear. I looked up from my lap-
top. Other coffee drinkers stopped
talking on their portables. For a sus-
pended moment in time, the place
was silent. Then someone's cell
phone rang and life went back to
normal.
And that, my friends, was the lat-
est Gulf "scare."
In fact,' I didn't enter a coffee shop
until mid-February, almost five
months after our move from metro
Detroit. As a newcomer, I was too
busy learning Hebrew to venture
away from my ulpan, or language
class.
A flashback to some of my first
days in the ulpan reveals a cast of
characters from Russia, Japan,
Argentina and India.
I was the sole immigrant from
America. Hence, I was the only stu-
dent endowed with a flat and gritty
accent of RRRs. I can't roll them. I
can't swallow them. I will forever be
an Amer — rrr — ican. (Not that
I'm in any rush to squelch my identi-
ty. Just my accent. In the company
of my husband only, I gurgle, push-
ing air from the back of my throat to
the tip of my tongue. It's not a pleas-
ant sound, so he says, but worse still
is the anxiety I suffer over introduc-
ing myself as "Rrruth.")
We, the new immigrants in the
ulpan, got to know each other
through a medley of conversations
that started off something like this:
Meeshiko: I'm from Japan. Where
are you from?
Uri: I don't eat meat. Do you?
Meeshiko: In Herzylia. Where do
you live now?
Uri: Three sons. Now please ask
me a question.
Meeshiko: Yes. I also ate dinner
yesterday.
Uri: I'm glad, but I haven't seen
that film.
Through the months of daily
classes, our non sequiturs evolved
into meaningful dialogue. The con-
nections that developed among a
"My husband
and I named
our pet rabbits
Troy and
Michigan."
diverse group of people — adults,
some in their late 20s, most older —
were really quite profound.
The Russians, who are stereotyped
as slackers, proved to be otherwise.
The Japanese students — converts
who had never spoken a word of
Hebrew before immigrating — rose
to the top of the class. When one of
them asked me whether I had taken
to life in Israel, I turned the question
back on her.
She said: "It's our home. Home of
the Jews. It's where we belong."
On the last day'of class, we orga-
nized a party. Each student con-
tributed to the event by reading a
poem of thanks to our teacher. An
older man from Russia, a good stu-
dent — who doubled as a good-time,
vodka-drinking grandpa of sorts —
stumbled over his words and started
gasping.
I stared at him and tried to figure
out whether he was teetering on the
brink of a heart attack, or paying the
price for skirting rehearsal.
Turns out, he was crying.
Several classmates followed suit.
My eyes stayed dry, but for the
first time since arriving in Israel, I
felt like I really understood — first-
hand — what the aliyah experience
is all about.
All is not peaceful here. And I
mean, within the borders. I've seen
Jews engaging in fist-shaking,
tongue-waving disputes on TV. I've
been snipped at by impatient clerks,
snapped at by bus drivers, and
laughed at by kids who think I talk
funny. I've literally yanked the radio's
plug from the wall when I just
couldn't stomach another debate
between the religious and secular.
But there, in the ulpan, was har-
mony. Jews — from notably worse
parts of the world than America —
were embarking on a better, freer
life. Their visions and hope gave me
a firm grasp on Israel's significance,
on its importance as our Jewish
homeland today, as in the past.
Still, there's no lying about the
fact that I'm homesick for family and
friends. My husband and I have
named our pet rabbits Troy and
Michigan. And if that sounds weird,
consider the old Iraqi guy who owns
the vegetable store across the street
from our apartment. He still remi-
nisces about the size of the carrots
that grew on his farm outside
Baghdad.
Bottom line: Here in Israel, you're
never far away from a joke or a frus-
tration. Here, as anywhere, your suc-
cess in life depends on which you
choose. ❑
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