Category: Learning Hebrew

Learning Hebrew, Love, Work

The Israel Experience

Jen

Part of the reason I feel so safe and secure in my decision to move to a foreign country is because my husband is not only fluent in the native language, but he lived here as both a child and, for a short time, as a young adult. Furthermore, he spent many years leading and coordinating teen tour programs through Israel. He even has an Israeli passport. In my mind, he’s Israeli.

But, as he keeps trying to tell me, there’s Israeli and then there’s Israeli.

The other day, we were driving around Tiberias on our way home from Misrad HaKlita (the most important government office for new immigrants since they are in charge of issuing us our monthly stipend) when I saw an interesting looking building.

“What’s that building? Do you know? It looks like a museum,” I asked Avi.

“I don’t know what that building is,” he responded.

“What? It says yad v’levanim. That sounds like yad vashem. Is it a museum?” I asked more emphatically.

“I really don’t know. Maybe it’s a museum,” he responded a little more impatiently.

“Well, what does yad vashem mean? Doesn’t it mean hall of rememberance or something?”

“No,” he said. “Yad means hand. Shem means name.”

“Yes, I know,” I said finally exasperated. “But maybe yad is like an official word for rememberance museum, even though it doesn’t mean museum or rememberance?!?”

“Jen! I don’t know what Yad V’levanim is,” he said. “I don’t know why they called it Yad Vashem. I don’t know everything! I can tell you what it’s like to swim in the Dead Sea, or what time of day you should climb Masada, or where to find kosher pizza on Ben Yehuda street. I know the Israel experience! I don’t know Israel LIFE!”

And suddenly I got it. Avi is a newbie, just like me.

Neither of us are freshmen, thank goodness, which is why we had the courage to make this move.  I’d probably place myself with the sophmores: I know enough Hebrew to read road signs and enough Arabic to know that the billboards in this village are not in Hebrew.

Avi is easily a rising senior, with his fluency and ability to seemlessly switch from an American to Israeli accent. He can order a double espresso and flirt with the Israeli barista; he can explain our son’s nut allergies to the waitress; and he can talk his way out of a speeding ticket. But he still has a bit to learn: There are words he needs to know now that he never learned as a kid, like “income tax” or “down payment.” Though an experienced professional for many years, most of which involved interacting with very high level professional and community leaders in both the States and Israel, Avi now needs to learn how to be an Israeli businessperson and consumer.

This isn’t the JCC Israel Experience, where we get a driver, a tour guide, and an air-conditioned bus, not to mention thousand of shekelim to keep in our fanny packs “just in case.” This is no vacation. This is no three-hour tour. This is our life.

And we’re not counselors looking after a bunch of teenagers from Syosset for five weeks — we’re parents of three young kids, who happen to have a few challenging needs to navigate in Israel. In particular, a sesame allergy for one and a nut allergy for the other.  But, that’s a rant of a different color.

I’m lucky. I know this. I don’t need to clutch my Hebrew-English dictionary. I have a husband who, for the most part, serves that purpose. I’m also fortunate to have a few friends here, who have already crossed the bridges I need to cross, and can advise me as to which is the smoother trail.

But, for sure, my husband and I are now seeing Israel through new pairs of eyes. Not as eager young tourists or upbeat, energetic counselors who know that a hot shower, a soft bed, and a familiar home-cooked meal are only weeks and a plane ride away.

Nope.

This is our home now. And it’s going to take both skill sets — his and mine — to make it feel that way.

Learning Hebrew, Parenting

On the sidelines

Jen

Today, a local journalist came to visit us. The reporter wanted to mainly focus on the efforts of my mother- and father-in-law, who in their retirement are trying to volunteer as much as possible in the local community, including working at a school nearby, where they teach English to children with special needs.

However, the reporter also spent a little time asking Avi and me questions about our decision to make Aliyah, about what we plan to do here, our first impressions, and what some of the challenges are here for new olim.

“Em, sooooo… I imagine thee situation here makes you nervous,” he asked me confidently in English.

“No, not really,” I responded. “What makes me more nervous is trying to navigate Kupat Holim (the health-care system in Israel), Beit Sefer and Gan (school), and other important mommy-related things without speaking very much Hebrew.”

The hot young sabra was surprised, but nodded sympathetically.

“Look, I’m used to knowing things,” I told him. “To listening to conversations and actually contributing to the discussion. In the States, I’m not someone who sits by with an inquisitive look and complacent smile. I have an opinion! I am in control! I am stubborn and strong-willed. Here I have no choice but to sit on the sidelines. I am not comfortable on the sidelines.”

My Hebrew is rusty, at best. I am a decent eavesdropper, but if someone trys to ask me a direct question in Hebrew, I am the proverbial deer in headlights.

“Huh? Who me?” My options are few:

1. Respond with a friendly smile and say in Hebrew, “Sorry I don’t speak Hebrew.” Which is not entirely true, so I feel like (a) a liar and (b) a coward.

2. Respond with a friendly smile and show off my three years studying Hebrew at The George Washington University. “I am a new immigrant. I am still learning. Please speak slowly,” I could say in Hebrew. This unfortunately would require a lot of heavy lifting on my part, though. I would have to listen carefully to the person slowly repeat their question, and then pray super hard that I understand it this time. It’s unlikely.

Or, 3. I could take the easy way out by throwing my hands up in the air and say in a heavy Italian accent, “I no-ah, speak-ah, da Hebrew!”

Many of the officials I’ve had to talk to here so far have asked me when I will take ulpan, the intensive Hebrew language institute.

I’d love to take ulpan — Can you imagine? Every day, five days a week, I’d wake up and travel by myself on a bus 30 to 40 minutes away from my children to a big city where I’d be with other adults from 8:30 am – 1:30 pm. I’d study the language, which would help me acclimate to society and, most likely, make friends. Then, I’d get back on a bus and ride 30 – 40 minutes by myself back home, maybe take a little snooze on the way, or read a book.  This would be lovely! What mom of three young children would not want to take ulpan?

Alas, taking ulpan is the stuff of dreams for the new immigrant mom.

Can someone explain to me what mother has the luxury of ulpan? When she’s trying to get her kids ready and off to school?  Not to mention, there’s all the stuff that has to happen when the kids are at school. (This assumes that my children are actually in school right now, which they are not, thanks to  bureaucratic snags.)

There’s the tedious, yet necessary “life” stuff like signing up for utilities; buying a cell phone plan; researching ridiculously expensive used cars to buy; learning the metric system; and registering, registering, registering for everything…school, health insurance, bituach leumi. 

And what happens if (when) one of the kids get sick? Or if I need to be home for one of the many utility workers to get access inside my house? And what about earning money? Sure, ulpan sounds great, but between parenting, setting up house, and trying to find work, I’m not sure I have time to learn your language.

Don’t think I’m not grateful for the support of the Israeli government and our sponsoring organization, Nefesh B’ Nefesh. I am grateful. Thank you for the financial assistance, the free health insurance and the tax breaks. But, you know what would be a really great benefit for a new olim?

An Israeli au pair.

A cute young girl, perhaps fresh out of the army, who would come to my home every day at 7 am, get my kids ready for school, make their lunch, see them off. Then, she’d clean up their breakfast plates, go food shopping, do a couple loads of laundry. In between, she’d search the internet listings for job opportunities for me or my husband. She’d open the door for the guy from Bezeq. She’d be home for the big kids when they get home from school, and she’d help them with their homework (which is all in Hebrew).

Somewhere around 3 pm, I’d saunter in. All flush with excitement over the useful new phrases I’d learned that day in ulpan.

“Do you sell gluten-free bread?” 

“In which aisle might I find extra virgin olive oil?”

“How much longer will it take for you to complete my transaction?”

Or, if I want to speak like a true Israeli in line while waiting my turn for a customer representative at “Pelefon,” Israel’s version of Verizon Wireless, I might learn how to say:

“You’re nothing! Who are you?  Where is your manager? Where is someone who can actually help me?”

Yes, an Israeli au pair would be a wonderful gift for new immigrant mothers. I wonder if there isn’t a generous female philanthropist in the United States who might consider creating a fund just for that.

Then, I just might have the time to go to ulpan.

Learning Hebrew

Initiation

Jen

My friend Etya, whose husband is Israeli, said it right. “Sorry to be cynical,” she wrote on Facebook, after hearing about the ongoing “balagan” (mess) that is settling in here as a new immigrant, “but they’re just preparing you for life in Israel.”

I also hate to be cynical, but now that I am an Israeli citizen it’s my God-given right. This first week in Israel has been trial by fire for us. Walking on hot coals with three children attached to my back would have been easier than swimming out of this sea of red tape, as I’ve been calling it. And thanks to PMS, I’ve had to desperately hold back not only jet-lag, but hormone-induced tears as Israeli after Israeli participates in the endless incidental hazing of “olim hadashim.”

From government worker to moving company office manager to kindergarten teacher to municipality administrator…no one is making things easy for us. None of it comes with malace, and all of it comes with a hearty and loving “b’hatzlacha” (good luck!). Nonetheless, we’re not having the easiest of transitions.

If I was watching the movie of our life this past week, it would be funny. It would be in black and white, though, starring the Marx brothers or Laurel and Hardy. There would be a tad bit more physical humor…my husband would have tripped and fallen face down into a discarded falafel as he was filling up the flat tire on our rental car at the gas station. Or a pigeon would shit on my head the third time I walked out of Bank Leumi without an official bank account. Or maybe after the moving company called to tell us the dock workers at the port of Haifa went on strike, we’d see the ship captain setting our lift from America on fire.

Thankfully you’ll see none of those extras on the documentary of our first week here…And some of the highlights were the warm welcomes we got from our friends and family. Posterboard signs on my in-laws house and on our soon-to-be rental saying “Bruchim Habaim” (welcome) in colorful Hebrew letters. Cheerful hellos from neighborhood kids who remembered my children from playing with them in the summer. And, most memorable, the awesome arrival at Ben Gurion airport.

Things may or may not be getting any easier in the weeks to come, but someday very soon, I have a feeling we’ll be part of the Tribe — hazing newcomers with a love that is reserved only for those who’ve decided to become members of a club who would have me as a member.

Learning Hebrew

Sounds like

Jen

Whenever I am at the Jersey shore in the summer, the sounds of the ocean stay with me long after I leave the beach. Lying in bed at night, I still hear them rolling and crashing; rolling and crashing.

It’s the same with Hebrew. Long after my mind has intellectually shut down and refuses to try to translate anymore (at least for the day), my brain keeps working. I continue to hear in my head the gutteral CH sound and the rolling Rrrrrrs speeding by a mile a minute.

Is this a known neurological phenonmenon? What causes this to happen? And when will it stop? I desperately need some sleep!

Perhaps the quiet will return when Hebrew is no longer noise to me, but LANGUAGE.

Learning Hebrew, Love, Making Friends, Parenting, Religion

Too Jewish

Jen

Almost from birth, the American Jewish mother does everything she can to ensure that her American Jewish daughter meets a nice Jewish boy.

What seems like minutes after her daughter’s baby naming, the American Jewish mother registers her daughter for Hebrew school at the local synagogue (or temple, if you happen to be a Reform American Jewish mother). And for a few years, the mother sails by on her daughter’s love of tefillot – not the actual meaning of the prayers, mind you, but the sing songiness of the chants. After all, who can resist a good Adon Olam? It comes in, what? 36 catchy varieties?

But soon after, the American Jewish daughter starts to whine that she doesn’t want to keep going three days a week to Hebrew school – her friends are busy with tennis and ballet and she wants to be busy with tennis and ballet, too. She doesn’t want to be wasting time on the Alef Bet since who speaks Hebrew in America anyway?

So her parents start telling her fabulous fairy tales of a land called “Bat Mitzvah” where you get rewarded for studying Torah troupe. The payment comes in the form of jewelry, and jewelry boxes to keep the jewelry in, and in a few envelopes with money for your college savings account (which will in reality be your camp account because these days camp costs almost as much as college.)

Then, some time in between Sunday School and Bat Mitzvah, the American Jewish parents  send their daughters off to Camp Ramah in the Poconos or Camp Harlam…where it’s sink or swim. Swimming after cute Jewish boys for the next five or six years, hoping to score at the weekly campfire or in a quiet corner at a USY convention, where she learns how to French kiss, but certainly nothing more.

And, says the American Jewish mother, God willing, during one of those years at overnight camp or in Jewish youth group or at a state school with a few good Jewish fraternities or sororities, the American Jewish daughter will fall madly in love with a nice Jewish boy whose parents are from Rye or Westchester, but not Brooklyn or Long Island. Even better, his family would be from The Main Line or Denver or Scottsdale, because this would mean his parents are Jewish, but not New York Jews, which as we know, are not the same as other Jews.

And, so God willing, by taking all the right steps and supporting all the formal and non-formal indoctrination, the American Jewish mother has put her American Jewish daughter on the path to a nice “shidduch.” Yes, God willing.

But, God forbid, that nice Jewish boy is Israeli.

Oy vey. God forbid.

God forbid, your American Jewish daughter falls for a nice Israeli Jewish boy. Then, all your hard work has been for nothing.

Because one day, the American Jewish daughter will marry that nice Israeli Jewish boy. And filled with all the yiddishkeit from Hebrew school and Zionist summer camp and Jewish youth group and a summer trip to the Holy Land…

One day…yadda yadda yadda…The American Jewish daughter will make Aliyah.

If you’re an American Jewish mother, I bet you’ve never imagined the scene where you kiss your American Jewish daughter goodbye as she steps on a plane to Israel with her husband and three children.

But it might happen.

So, be mindful, American Jewish parents. Instilling a love of Judaism in your American child is a careful practice. Much like a tennis serve: You want to make sure you hit it strong enough to get over the net, but not too hard it’s sent flying out of bounds.

Because, one day, yadda yadda yadda …you might find yourself kissing a computer screen giving your Israeli grandchildren “nishikot” via Skype.

Like my American Jewish mother.