I’ve learned Hebrew, and how to drive impatiently
Hebrew wasn’t up to the task, but I could definitely tell he wasn’t inviting me out to lunch. What could I have done wrong? Just when I thought he had finished, he went off on another, even louder, shouting bout. I glanced at the administrative assistants who were struggling to hide their giggles. Eventually, they interrupted him, and explained that he had got the wrong guy. Apparently he was supposed to be giving the ear-bashing to another new immigrant in the office. A simple, terrifying case of mistaken identity.
I soon learned that, unlike in England or France, where shouting at someone means that you have probably done something pretty bad, in Israel this isn’t the case. People seem to relish being shouted at. To reply, you simply shout back in return, only a few decibels louder. Even now I am amazed when I go to a meeting and hear people bawling at each other as if they were the bitterest enemies, and see them five minutes later, laughing over a joke at lunch.
The other famed custom of Israelis is their impatience at traffic lights. Israelis have an astute sense of timing and can correctly predict the precise moment the light will turn green. If you do not drive off within the next millisecond, make no mistake, you will get honked.
I was loving life in Tel Aviv, but one event brought me crashing back to reality. It was the news that a suicide bomber got on a bus in Bulgaria and killed seven Israelis. Somehow, I felt personally attacked. I wanted to share my anger and sadness with my colleagues and expected them to be as outraged as I was. But they didn’t seem to be affected. “These things happen” was the normal reply, accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders. Have the sheer number of these attacks over the year desensitised Israelis? Sad songs played on the radio, and life went on.
One month later, I was due to speak at a conference in Berlin on legal measures to combat online antisemitism and Holocaust denial. It was my first trip abroad since I’d made aliyah. When the speaker introduced me as “Jonathan Josephs, from Israel” I felt an intense moment of pride. To be able to speak on efforts to combat antisemitism in Germany was one thing; doing so as a new citizen of the state of Israel was quite another.
Many immigrants say they can’t recall when they started to feel like a proper Israeli. I can. It was in my fourth month. I was behind a car at a traffic light. The light went green. The car in front didn’t immediately y drive off. You guessed it. I honked. . Israelis up and down the country y would have been proud of me.
Soon after there was the waterrshed moment when I ordered a beer in Hebrew, and the waitress answered me in Hebrew, instead of English.
I was speaking and understanding more of the language, and at the office, I felt confident enough to give a legal presentation. I wasn’t sure whether my colleagues understood me or were just being polite, until I remembered that Israelis aren’t known for being polite.
The next evening, as I was driving back from work on the Ayalon motorway, the traffic suddenly screeched to a halt. People were getting out of their cars and lying on the ground. The first rocket attack on Tel Aviv since the Gulf War was in progress. But I didn’t know that. I had turned up the CD player and missed the warning. By that point I wanted to show everyone what an integrated Israeli I had become. So I proceeded to honk my horn and continued weaving between the stopped cars. It was only when I arrived home and saw my flat-mates sheltering in the stairway that I understood what was happening.
Waiting for the all-clear in the bomb shelter was one of my less pleasant Israeli experiences. The elderly woman sheltering next to me saw that I wasn’t coping well with the stress and reassured me with a friendly smile and a few kind words. The fact that she was a Holocaust survivor helped put the danger into perspective.
Later, I went down to the grocery store across the street. A few locals from t h e n e i g h b o u r - hood were sitting outside, listening to music, sharing jokes and drinking beers. I joined them. I realised that, bombs notwithstanding, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. Returning to my flat, I saw that I parked my car on a yellow line. But I knew I wouldn’t get a ticket — the authorities had more important things to deal with and, besides, we were all united by having survived the rocket attack.
Just before falling asleep, a friend from England phoned. He had heard about the attack. Israel was too dangerous, he told me. I should come back to Europe immediately. I told him, no. This beautiful, vibrant and lively country had welcomed me with open arms. I was happy to be in Israel.
Next morning, I found a 250 shekel parking ticket stuck under my windscreen wiper. I couldn’t help laughing. That’s when I realised I was home.