Journey into Zionism: Passports and other mishaps, part I

There are unquantifiable benefits to coming to Israel through a group program, as opposed to on your own: for example, the knowledge that someone else would take care of the bureaucratic hassles of renewing my volunteer visa after the first three months, thus relieving me from having to do the dirty work myself. You can imagine my disappointment when my madricha pulled me aside one day and explained that she was unable to obtain an extension of my visa for me.

“It seems that you’re Israeli,” she informed me.

“No that’s not possible,” I explained.

Turns out I was mistaken.

You see, my mom lived in Israel for several years when she was around my age, before returning to the Land of Opportunity in 1978. 

Yeah, I knew that already. What I didn’t know is that she sort of conveniently forgot about her Israeli citizenship after she settled back into the swing of things in the U S of A and married my dad.  What I really didn’t know is that because she evidently still holds Israeli citizenship (under her maiden name), I’m also an Israeli citizen. What I really, really didn’t know is that my mom never registered me as her American-born Israeli daughter, since she was concerned that I might have to serve in the army if I decided to visit as a tourist. Or so she says.

The best part is that I couldn’t be issued an Israeli passport under my newfound citizenship until I could prove to the authorities that my mother is in fact my birth mother – despite the fact that the government likes to operate under the assumption that all of this is true even in the absence of official paperwork, not to mention that we all have the right to be citizens here anyway.

To sum up: thanks to my adoring mother, I faced what amounted to house arrest, a forced imprisonment in this country, with my ability to return to the US contingent upon the receipt of either written permission from the government OR a bona fide Israeli passport.

I had no plans of leaving the country any time soon, so this was really a non-issue, but there were some other thoughts running through my mind. However, my mother’s fears were put to rest because fortunately (for me and for the IDF’s reputation) I’m already too old to be drafted. And so I proceeded in my efforts to comply with Israel’s ridiculous law that citizens must enter and leave the country on an Israeli passport by applying for a shiny blue document of my own at the misrad hap’nim.

Side note: I’ve learned at my day gig at the Kiryat Shmonah middle school that one phrase often used by teachers in Israeli public schools is “zeh mafria li,” or something along the lines of “this bothers me.” It’s quite multi-functional, you know.  Example: Prepubescent girl gets in screaming fight with the instructor – zeh mafria li. Eighth grader starts smoking cigarettes in class – zeh mafria li.  Boy hurls books across the room at his friend – zeh mafria li. The list goes on and on.

Of course, the government clerks at the misrad hap’nim threw the same line at me when I demanded in Hebrish that they give me the attention I deserve.

Shana: “You are going to help me fill out this awful form because I can’t read Hebrew, and you are going to do it now!”

Inept office worker: “Zeh mafria li.”

Shana: “Mafria this you miserable wench!”

And with that, I ripped up the paperwork and threw the shreds at her – or at least that’s how the conversation should have gone; then maybe they wouldn’t have had the final word when they explained (through an interpreter) that they could do nothing for me until I produced a birth certificate.

And yet, the philosophical comprehension of my dual citizenship presses on: Perhaps the most significant ramification of this discovery is that I can no longer laugh at Israelis without inadvertently mocking my own culture and heritage. 

Suddenly, dancing Israeli style with my limbs flailing about as I jump up and down to my own rhythm isn’t so funny anymore, is it? I have, however, decided to adopt the typical Israeli form of dress, such that every day I wear my favorite Crocs, my favorite ugly bag, my favorite ugly scarf, my favorite over-sized sunglasses, my favorite jeans with the ugly detailing on the back pockets, basically every favorite thing I own with all my favorite ugly flair all at the same time, in case you haven’t yet picked up on the theme. It works well with my new knitting hobby, I might add.

I’ve also decided that if I can be American AND Israeli at the same time, there is no limit to how many nationalities I can adopt on any given day! I’ve recently started telling people that I’m Ukrainian, which makes all the Russians at the bars excited until I add that my ancestors left that horrible place in like 1920 in favor of capitalism and electricity and such.

To be continued.