Israel – Five Years On

Michael Talalay

The newly arrived Russian immigrant tried his best to answer the questions posed by the journalist:

How was life for you in Russia? – Can’t complain.

Ok, did you like your job there? – Can’t complain

And how was the schooling for your children? – Can’t complain

And the quality and quantity of the food in the Moscow stores? – Can’t complain

So, you were happy in Russia? – Can’t complain

Well, then, the journalist continued, if you can’t complain why have you come to Israel? – Because here I can complain.

One of the two great changes in the five years since we last visited Israel has been the influx of Russians. One million of them – about one-sixth of the population. Some two-thirds of these – so I was told – may actually be Jewish. Signs in Cyrillic are sprouting everywhere. Russian has become the de facto fourth language of Israel, after the three official ones of Hebrew, Arabic and English. But that is only the superficial effect. Imagine taking one million Mancunians and moving them to Milan . . . . the social and cultural effects would not be insignificant.

However, we didn’t go to Israel to meet Russian immigrants – not even my newly arrived relatives from St Petersburg and Moscow. The reason for our trip was a Bar Mitzvah in Haifa. Otherwise, Israel at Pesach time is a lot more appealing than Israel in the heat of summer.

We flew El Al – known to aircrew as standing for Every Landing Always Late. In fact, it was a good flight. Food was excellent (I too was surprised); service was good (hmmmmm!); and we arrived on time (WOW). Landing to a chorus of "the lord Jesus be praised" from a large contingent of black Americans on their way to visit the sights of the Holy Land. No problem with customs or immigration – except that the young girl was quite insistent that we must have Israeli passports – based on our family names (Benzimra and Talalay).

We started in Ashdod, with my cousin and her husband and kids. Slept, ate, listened to some great rock music (one of my cousin’s daughters has opened a jazz café in nearby Gedera), body surfed in the Mediterranean, and did some sight-seeing. We visited the underground caves where the Israelites lived during the Bar Kochba rebellion, and to get there we had to drive past the battlefield where the army of Saul faced the Philistines and David, red haired and handsome, defeated Goliath. And we talked. One of the things we talked about was the second great change in the past five years – the political situation.

We had the same conversation later on in Haifa – in both cases with Sabras, secular professionals who in the past supported Rabin and Barak, the Oslo accords and the peace process. They have lost faith in that process. They no longer see how peace can be achieved. Barak, they felt, gave the Palestinians everything – and was turned down. Does Arafat – not to mention Hamas or Islamic Jihad – actually want peace? And even if he does, can he attempt to deliver it without being thrown out or even killed? Despair and even despondency would be the wrong words to describe this new attitude. Resignation and sadness come closer. Whatever one wants to call it, the reality is that even the supporters of the peace process (at least those we talked to) no longer believe that the Palestinian leadership either wants to or can deliver peace on any terms short of the eradication of Israel.

From the heat and humidity of Ashdod, we drove (and air conditioning must be one of the greatest inventions since indoor plumbing) up to Haifa. First, though, we stopped at Bnei Berak to visit the former rebbetzen of Brook Green, now living in Israel with her daughter. Time travel is possible.

Returning to the twenty-first century, we whizzed up to Kibbutz Beit Oren in the Carmel National Park, where we stayed for three nights during the Bar Mitzvah celebrations. It must be absolutely gorgeous in the springtime, lush and green with flowers and trees in bloom everywhere. In the heat of the summer, it was still impressive – if rather parched – browns and earth colours dominating the eye with the occasional dust devil reminding us – in air-conditioned comfort – of just how harsh the climate can be. (As the old joke goes, Moses turned left when he should have turned right).

The Bar Mitzvah was lovely. Friends and family from around Israel and from the UK all celebrated non-stop for three days. Those of us from England were honoured by being called up to the Reading of the Law – and Bobby and Sammy jointly did gelilah. It was a reform service (somehow different in Israel where the vernacular isn’t English), but in deference to the more orthodox English guests the ladies were not called up. A lovely party Sunday evening in Yotvata – a dairy restaurant by the beach at the bottom of the Haifa Cable Car. The most delicious fruit juices were served – pineapple, orange, watermelon, banana – almost good enough to wean one off whisky. That morning, we had had a guided tour of the Bahai Gardens – beautiful anywhere and doubly so in a country where English-style manicured lawns are at a premium. Imagine a swathe of green, formally landscaped with terraces, fountains, sculptures and symmetrical paths, and bordered on either side by beautifully coloured wild flowers, the whole thing about the width of a football field and descending down Mt Carmel towards the Mediterranean for about a quarter mile. The gardens weren’t very crowded. Tourism in Israel is very reduced. In fact, the speeches that evening at the party made reference to this and were fulsome in their thanks to those who came from abroad.

Apparently, many trips – even for weddings and other family functions – have been cancelled. Fear, I guess. Although, if I’d strolled at the wrong time of the wrong day across Hammersmith Bridge or through Ealing Broadway, the consequences might not have been too pleasant. Certainly, we never felt frightened or threatened in all our time in Israel. It may have been different had we gone to Jerusalem (which even Israelis are avoiding) or tried to drive across the West Bank, but we never were concerned. Security though is tighter – and the boot of our car was opened and the bags searched as we drove into an underground parking garage in a mall in Haifa.

We finished our last day in Haifa by more body-surfing on the beach. Again – as in Ashdod – a reminder of the extraordinarily cosmopolitan nature of Israeli society: dark-skinned Yemeni and even darker Falasha mixing with pale, slavic-featured Russians. Lithe young girls in bikinis sun bathing next to orthodox women with full-length skirts and snoods.

Finally, we drove to Tel Aviv for the last two nights with another one of my cousins and her husband, recently moved to Israel from Las Vegas. She’s the family genealogist, so we spent a lot of time going over the family tree before turning to politics. One of the ideas now being seriously mooted in Israel is the building of what I call the "great wall of Israel" along the green line. Is it a counsel of despair, a bargaining ploy, or a serious attempt to find a solution to violence where "peace" is no longer a possibility? In Tel Aviv, peace of a different sort is hard to find. We drove downtown in some of the worst traffic I have ever encountered. We ended up down by Allenby Street in a very busy arts and crafts market on Nahalat Binyamin – pedestrianised fortunately. There we did find peace – lunching in a sidewalk cafe while being serenaded by a string quartet of Russian immigrants. Only when we returned to the flat in the late afternoon did I find out that the cellist is a relative of mine recently arrived in Israel.

Five years on from our last visit to Israel, much has changed and a great deal remains the same. For a tiny country, the variety is astonishing. It’s vibrant; it’s alive; it’s flourishing. We had a lovely holiday – better indeed than expected – and will undoubtedly go back soon – only not in August.