My Story 41

After Netanyahu's election in 1996, and his subsequent betrayal of his voters, I, like hundreds of thousands of others, was deeply disappointed. Beyond that, living in a Kookian community, where nearly everyone regarded him as the Divine Right King of Israel, I shuddered at the bizarre display of cognitive dissonance. Bibi's concessions to Arafat, met with more and more terror, did not bode well for the future.I again pleaded with Sima to consider leaving the country, but her faith was great that it would all soon change for the better. After resigning as rabbi of Tappuah, and suffering from continued government harassment, as well as the censure of my neighbors for my "lack of faith in the Redemption", I knew I must, at the very least, leave Yehudah and Shomron. I had stopped attending public functions, and spoke freely with no one. I limited my activities to teaching my sofer courses, which were very popular. My courses were being organized by various groups and corporations, so I only received 10% of the $700 tuition per student, which provided me with a meager income. I attempted to organize classes on my own, but I encountered the problem of many bad checks. At this point, a young Moroccan rabbi suggested that I move into his community, where housing was cheap. Sima and I decided that we would make the move, leaving our house in Beit El vacant for a while, until we could see in what direction the country was heading. In 1998, we packed our belongings and moved to the tiny agricultural community of Shoqeda.  It was a different Israel. People had chickens, goats, crops; especially peppers and citrus fruit. It had been established in 1960, as a home for immigrants from southern Morocco's Atlas Mountains. Homes had been built for them, and they were sent to work in nearby farming communities. Soon, they petitioned, and got help from the government in the form of their own farmland. The community was right on the border of Gaza, which had been quiet for years. The surrounding communities were likewise ethnic; Moroccan, Tunisian, Yemenite. Larger communities were a bit more diverse, with many Ashkenazim, as well as recent arrivals from the former Soviet Union. There was little contact between the groups. The Moroccans warned me not to associate with or trust the Tunisians, and the Tunisians warned me against the Moroccans. I told them that in Beit El, I knew a man who was Tunisian, but married to a Moroccan. They assured me that I must be mistaken, as this was quite impossible. The houses that were built in the '60s, belonged to a generation older than myself. They were strictly pious, but their kids were not. The younger generation moved away, but maintained a strong sense of tradition and family. It is hard to picture the tremendous sense of continuity these people had. Each home had an igloo-shaped stone oven in the front yard. Every Friday, pre-dawn, the women would fire up these ovens with wood, and bake the most incredibly delicious bread, called Frena. These were used for Shabbat and Holiday meals, the Germanic braided "Challah" being unknown among them. They allowed Sima to join in, on the condition that she not touch the ovens, which each woman saw as her most prized possession. As the older generation died off, their houses usually fell into total disrepair. There were a number of such ruins in the community. A few were rented out by their kids before the houses fell apart. The rent was very cheap (we paid $140/month for a large house), as few wanted to live in such a backwater. A man in Beer Sheva, who had, at one time, taken my course, offered to organize my classes.For a while, everything looked positive. This could be my new direction, far from the political storm.Then, the Ministry of Labor, which had always offered retraining courses, began to give training in scribal arts. Their course was nowhere near as comprehensive as mine, but it had a distinct advantage; students were paid, instead of having to pay. This wiped me out financially. My "benefactor" in Beer Sheva then emigrated to Venezuela. When Bibi signed the Wye agreements, I saw the writing on the wall for the "territories". I sold my house in Beit El, the house I had built with so much pain and suffering, the only house I would ever own. We lived off the proceeds for the next three years. I traveled three times a week to a store in Jerusalem that sold religious goods, owned by the Beit El tefillin factory, where I would check tefillin and mezuzot. I never had very good eyesight, and what I had was fading. The exacting checking of the minuscule writing was a major strain on my eyes, so I could only do a few hours at a time. At least, it got me out of the house, where I was becoming more and more despondent. In 2000, the "Second Intifada" began. Actually, the first had never ended. The terror was simply put on a low burner. But a visit from Ariel Sharon to the Temple Mount sparked violent protests, which also reached Gaza. Quiet, bucolic Shoqeda and its neighboring towns, became targets for rockets fired from Gaza. (some of the terror tunnels actually came up into Shoqeda, but that was years later). On top of that, the Israeli Supreme Court issued a ruling that all the homes built for North African immigrants in the '50s and '60s, would be confiscated by the government if the original families were no longer living in them.That meant we would soon lose our rented house. During Sukkot of 2000, we were sitting in our sukkah when we heard a boom. A school bus had blown up nearby. Sima said: "How many times can my heart be broken? Let's go". We went to see the local Social Worker. She told us that we didn't belong in Israel. She expressed rage that good, talented people like us had been seduced to come to this madhouse. (Would that the aliyah people could be so honest!) It's time to look for work abroad. We began exploring possibilities.