My Story 42

My total time in Israel was seventeen years; fourteen in Beit El, and three in Shoqeda. Hope had turned to despair, both on a personal and national level. Until moving to Shoqeda, I had never owned a car in Israel; travelling around the country in buses and hitches, which the Israelis call "trempim". Shoqeda, however, was so isolated, that a car was a necessity. Cars are very expensive in Israel. But the Jerusalem Post had been running a series (I can only speculate on who was taking bribes) about a type of car called a "Skoda". They were made in what was then Czechoslovakia. The word "Skoda" in Czech means "smile". In Russian it means "a joke", which was more apropos. They had a bad reputation, but the Post was saying that they are great cars, made since 1990 of Volkswagen parts, for a fraction of the cost of a Volkswagen. I understand that they are now good cars, but the assertion of the Post was false. I had my used Skoda checked and passed by a mechanic, but to no avail. Every time we drove to Jerusalem, the engine head burned out. Expensive repairs were needed every two or three weeks. The money from the sale of our home in Beit El was dwindling fast. I was no longer able to make my monthly trips to Tsfat or Tiberias for prayer at my beloved holy places. Access to Jerusalem was by means of vans, operating illegally as buses. There were two companies running these vans, each trying to put the other out of business. We were frequently stopped by police, which we understood was as a result of bribes from the competing company. As previously mentioned, I was, at that time, working in Jerusalem for a few hours, three days a week. There was a man, somewhat younger than myself, who took the same van at the same time. He was an American Sephardi. His family background was Syrian, while his wife was Egyptian. His name was Joey. A close friendship blossomed between us. We shared our horror stories about life in Israel. He worked at a tourist shop in Jerusalem. He was very upset at the fact that Christian Evangelicals were constantly approaching him, urging him to commit acts of violence against Arabs, in order to hasten the fulfillment of prophecies. He was incensed at the shabby treatment of Sepharadim. He also was angry at Israeli attitudes towards Arabs. He felt that  racism, and a false sense of superiority, permeated Israeli society. Even the Left, which favored a Palestinian State, merely wanted them to live and prosper...in their own country, separate from us. We discussed these issues at length,during our hour and a half commute. I didn't agree with all of his points, but we shared the feeling that Israel was not the place in which we wanted our children to be brought up. Three years later, the day before I left Israel, he said that he needed to talk to me urgently. I told him that I could not, as I was preparing for a speedy exit that night. I will always have feelings of regret and guilt over not being able to speak with him. He was "leaving" through a different route. A few days later, he converted, with his family, to Islam, moved to the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem, and became active in Hamas. Shortly afterward, he returned to the U.S., and was put in prison for conspiracy to commit terrorism. He is now known as Yusuf Khattab. You can see his hate-filled videos on YouTube.With our funds rapidly dissipating, I saw that we could not remain. I became clinically depressed. We appealed to our regional social services office. We were told that no help would be forthcoming, as we were the richest people in the area. "But I'm down to my last $10,000, and that is going at the rate of $1,000/month!" The social worker said "there is not a single person in this area who is not at least $100,000 in debt. You are rich." Our oldest son got a decent job as a graphic artist with the Maariv newspaper. That was a wonderful boon, but could not sustain the family long term.  At the urging of the local social worker, we took a year to concentrate on how to find a position abroad, where my talents would be appreciated and utilized. I did have an offer from a rural Indian community, but Sima was not anxious to draw water from a river and be paid in chickens. I applied for rabbinic positions in Finland, England, Ireland, Scotland, Estonia, Venezuela, South Africa, Canada, and France. But it was too late. I was fifty years old. Everyone wants rabbis who are young and dynamic. My connections were gone. In many cases, they were actually deceased. I was a nobody, betraying the Jewish people by wanting to leave Israel. I was told by the "powers that be" in numerous communities "we are here to help people emigrate to Israel, not the opposite." Some even scolded me over the phone; especially the South Africans.I understood that I would need to go in a different direction.