Journey into Zionism: Passports, Part II

So you may remember from my last post that I've been on an incredibly exasperating, seemingly endless journey to obtain paperwork for my Israeli citizenship from the Ministry of the Interior. The whole process has been slightly complicated due to language barriers, which I must admit is a little surprising considering that in a country where thousands of Anglos make Aliyah every year, English proficiency is apparently not a requirement for working in the main office of immigration - despite being a prerequisite for most jobs in the service industry in Tel Aviv.

My initial attempt to get a passport ended with me retreating in shameful defeat as the intolerable misrad hap'nim clerks turned me away empty handed due to a lack of proper documentation. Momma Dorfman sure was pleased to receive a hysterical long distance phone call that night, requesting that she dig up my birth certificate from the safe deposit box and priority mail it to the Middle East.

My second try, although frustrating as all hell, barely counts for anything because my supervisor from the San Francisco Federation took me to the Qiryat Shemona branch of the misrad hapanim on the one day of the week that it happened to be closed.

If there had been any doubt in my mind as to the incompetence of the government employees in this country (and the North, specifically), attempt number three confirmed my mistrust when they sent me on a wild goose chase to call someone named "Benny" between the hours of 13:00 and 16:30 on Thursday in order to acquire a Visa from the Tzfat office. No, you idiots, I can't get an American Visa if I'm Israeli! That's the whole problem!

My madricha, an (actual) Israeli, promised to hold my hand through my fourth endeavor at the main government branch in Jerusalem, and after scheduling and rescheduling for two weeks, we were finally able to find some time for her to march me into the director's office and argue my way into legal citizenship. Of course her only free afternoon turned out to be the one day that the staff was out for a training session, proof that there is no g-d.

After four unfulfilling, fruitless attempts, I finally decided to take matters into my own hands and tear down the damn building like the tempestuous sabra that I've always wanted to be.

For those of you who are (fortunately) unfamiliar with the physical state of the immigration center of the Middle East, I'd like to take a moment to describe it for you in the best way that I can, from my decidedly non-ethnocentric perspective. The Ministry of the Interior can most accurately be compared to an American DMV: the stale air of the waiting room is clogged up with restless impatience of the patrons and unmotivated ineptness of the staff. Walking down the street in the center of Jerusalem, you will barely notice the small rectangular sign that lists the various offices in Hebrew, as the centuries-old façade with an iron door looks more like a decrepit synagogue than a government agency.

Upon entering the office on the third floor, I bypassed the line of anxious immigrants and headed straight to the director's office, where I slammed my application down on her desk and proclaimed in almost-Hebrew that I needed a passport and I needed it that instant. After fifteen minutes of arguing over the exact nature of my request (yes, my mom made aliyah, and no, she did not register me when I was born, and no, I don't want an identity card right now), I scribbled my signature onto the form and received a receipt with my brand new Israeli identification number. I held the yellow slip high above my head as I paraded through the lobby, laughing victoriously at all the fools sitting in their uncomfortable chairs waiting for their number to be called.

To celebrate my inauguration into Israeli society, I decided to economically support the country via the shopping center around Jaffa Street, spending way too much money on unnecessary items such as ugly necklaces, ugly sandals, and my first ever frum skirt, because, really, every girl should have one. I mean, nothing screams "Israeli" like making dumb purchases that I regret two hours later. I'm SO excited.