18 Karat Israeli

I have spent half my life in Israel. I married Israeli women. I raised my child in Israel. I no longer feel at home in the United States. I would never live in another country.  Still, I am not 100% Israeli nor will ever be.  I have to accept that fact.

My impurity goes beyond my accent or love of American football and baseball, remnants of my previous life. It is expressed in subtle things, experiences shared by most Israelis but not by me. It is too late to correct them either even if I so wanted.

First of all, I do not eat or like bamba, a fried peanut snack adored by Israelis of all religions. In my mind, it reeks of burnt peanuts but for people of my adopted homeland, brings back memories and causes their mouth to water. The closest American cultural equivalent is root beer, a non-exportable American product.

Likewise, winter in Israel is not snow but instead krembo, a sweet, fluffy marshmallow foam in a thin chocolate shell wrapped in aluminum foil. Traditionally, ice cream production stopped in September and was replaced by these krembo.  The debates on the proper technique for eating it are as elaborate as those regarding Oreo cookies. In my mind, it is a waste of calories but good luck persuading any Israeli of that.

In terms of coming of age, aside from getting sick drunk, a universal ceremony, there are two rites that almost all Israelis go through.  The first one occurs in 7th grade, when all school children are required to prepare their family tree, at least for a few generations back, and interview their grandparents, a one-time honor for many of the golden age. In the past, this search for the past could be a little difficult, even strange, as the Holocaust erased many of the people behind the names but that is less true today. I have to admit that I have very little idea of my distant roots nor am I, even today, that interested in it.  Still, Israeli children, albeit under coercion, know from whence they came, not a bad thing really.

The other rite is the famous bakkum even if not experienced by all Israelis for one reason or another. It is the sorting center of the Army where potential recruits go at the age of 18 after they finish high school.  From what I understand, they are poked inside and out, assessed and classified and then sent to prospective training bases or home, as applicable.  I was 28 years old, married and suffered from hypoglycemia. IDF was not sufficiently desperate for manpower to want me, as Uncle Sam would say. So, I never passed through that gate. In some ways, I do regret not having passed down that road as it would have an interesting experience.  On the other hand, as my first wife once said, I have no idea of how to probably make a bed.  Oh well, it is far too late to remedy.

Lastly, most Israelis have spent a day at the beach in Tiberias, a town located next to the Sea of Galilee, a name no less misleading than Greenland. To explain, it is a fresh water lake 166.7 km² (64.4 sq. mi) at its fullest, which was some 20 years ago at least, and located in a basin. In the summer, it is the largest natural sauna I have ever seen.  The beach itself is mainly sand, to give it credit, but neither very long nor deep. Any beauty the location has, mainly very early morning, is ruined by the mass pilgrimage of Israelis of all ages to its beaches on holidays, especially Independence Day.  Every square meter is occupied.  Imagine a Tokyo subway with barbeques. One man’s poison is another man’s meat. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love living in Israel but everything has a limit.  The search for purity does not justify being totally miserable. I am perfectly contented being 18 karat Israeli.

Immemorial thoughts

Yesterday, in accordance with Israeli’s unique way of scheduling it right before Independence Day, Memorial Day for Fallen soldiers was marked in Israel. On this day, families visit cemeteries.  As in many countries, the media broadcast stories about fallen heroes and their families while a siren is sounded twice, once on the eve and once in the morning of the day. Stores close early on the eve with “heavy” music broadcast on radio all day long. The names of the fallen in chronical order of their death are read throughout the 24 hours.  Unfortunately, they are sufficient names to recite to fill the entire period.  All in all, it is a heavy, sad day broken at the end by the changing of the guard ceremony at the Knesset, which signals the beginning of Independence Day and time to light up the barbeques.

Yet, to a certain degree, I feel alien to this Memorial Day. I simply have no experience with death by fire in any form.  My father, still alive, survived World War II with no permanent injuries. My brother and I reached 18 after the Vietnam War and mandatory draft in the United States ended. I don’t know any one that was killed or wounded in military service, either in the United States or Israel. My daughter never served in the IDF.  The only deaths I have experienced at all were my grandmothers, who were quite aged, in their 80’s and 90’s.  I am still a virgin to bereavement. 

By contrast, most Israelis know what death is. They have had friends and family killed or wounded during military service or terrorist incidents.  My wife had a brother killed in service when she was a small child. Memorial Day carries significance to most Israelis, except for a few extra ultra-orthodox that do not consider themselves Israeli in any case.

I do not mean that I feel no emotion.  As I watch parents, children and siblings talk about their loss, I become very sad. Tear well up. I also sense the heavy atmosphere. Memorial Day is not like any other day. It has its own weight. Yet, to be honest, my sympathy is of the universal type, the feeling we can share for anybody that has lost a loved one, regardless of the circumstances.  Any decent human being can understand lost and empathize with an individual experiencing that loss.  Yet, I cannot imagine the pain of parents that must bury their own children.  It is clearly awful but beyond my comprehension.

Some would say that I should be grateful for being so fortunate as to have never experienced such pain. The fact is that my naivety results from pure luck. I was born after World War II and was too young for the Vietnam War and too old for IDF service. Neither I nor my family has ever been in the wrong place and time during my 28 years in Israel, including the rocket attacks on Karmiel during the Second Lebanese War.  As in all matters of luck, the past does not guarantee the future.  Still, at least for the present, all I can do is respect and empathize with those whose parents, children and siblings have paid the ultimate price for Israeli independence. For better or worse, I cannot identify with them. My hope is that in a generation or two, my experience will become the rule, not the exception, in Israel and the entire Middle East.

Military ribbons

I have lived in Israel since 1989, some 28 years, not including one year as a volunteer. I was 28 years old when I made alia, immigration, and have since spent half my in Israel. In many ways, I have become local, as colonials would say. I speak Hebrew, don’t stand on protocol and understand almost all of the jokes. That said, I recognize that I will never be 100% Israeli, mainly because of a lack of military service.

 I simply never went through baku, the enlistment center, and basic training. I arrived too old be an effective soldier. Thus, I was given a health exemption. I can’t say that I fought the decision as I was a newlywed. Neither I nor my first wife was enthusiastic about me away for long period of times or optimistic about my ability to even make a bed the army way. The IDF did not really need me either. So, I missed the Israeli male-defining experience of proving myself as a soldier, doing mandatory service and reserve duty. I also did not go through that male-bonding experience that leads to so many friendships in Israel.

The other military experience I missed is that of a parent of a soldier. I have a daughter who did not serve in the IDF, having received an exemption. As a result, I never escorted by child that same baku, see her come home on weekends exhausted with a pile of dirty clothes, drive her to base and appear in uniform with a rifle whenever she had leave during her duty. For that matter, I never had to wonder where exactly she was, what she was doing and if she was safe. There are many Israeli parents that would envy me on that matter.

On the other hand, I have done my civilian “duty.” I have sat through endless special broadcasts on TV, discussing the latest military campaign. I have celebrated my birthday by going into a “protected” room as a gift from Sadam Hussein (Gulf War). It was no gas, as they say. I have seen “the rockets’ red glare” during the Second Lebanese War and chosen to stay in my house despite the frequent sirens. In fact, I no longer count how many military actions I have been viewed as a civilian. However, to my credit or stupidity, depending on your point of view, I have never run to safer pastures, instead standing my ground in Israel. I “understand” what it means to be an Israeli civilian during war.

To clarify any confusion, I am neither proud nor regretful of my lack of military service. Given the circumstances, that was the reality. On the bright side, I and my immediate family have never had a bullet shot at them or even in our direction and have never been in danger of being killed or wounded in military action. Likewise, I would have liked my daughter to do military service but fully understand why that was not practical at the time. In the opposite sense, my life would be perfectly fine without knowing how to put on a gas mask or the size of a hole created by rocket on a road. For better or worse, I accept what I have been given.

Yet, no matter how long I live here, I will always have a bit of galute, Diaspora, in me, not only because of my accent, manners or way of thinking but also because I never experienced what it means to be an Israeli soldier.