Making Aliyah: Faking aliyah

When I first 'made' aliyah way back in 1992, I didn't even know what the word aliyah meant, let alone how to pronounce it (a-LEE-ya? a-LIE-ya? Eliza?)

The truth is, I didn't come to Israel for any Zionist reasons - another term I was unfamiliar with, although I did hear somewhere that it's the same as racism. Funny, I thought racism was a bad thing. In fact, I was merely bent on getting the heck out of Quebec, Canada where Anglos were deemed too un-French - particularly by the province's "French Language Police" - and encouraged to leave their native land SVP ASAP. The Indians, oops, I mean 'Aboriginal' people,’ oops, I mean 'First People of Canada' were welcome to stay, albeit with some reservations, merci beaucoup. And what a beau coup it was.

The Accidental Citizen

My first step upon the stairway to heaven was applying to Israel's WUJS (World Union of Jewish Students) program, claiming I was a college graduate. Okay, perhaps graduating from my first and only year as a music student didn't exactly meet the subsidized program's requirements. But until Israel passes the Law of Return to Sender, consider me settled.

Oddly enough, WUJS accepted me and three weeks later this refugee found himself hitchhiking in the desert outside the town of Arad on his way to discover the Dead Sea, which I also discovered to officially be the lowest point on earth. Sorry Gaza.

But before hitchhiking in this strange new land, I entered a police station to ask whether or not it was safe to hitchhike, to which the policeman informed me that there are three types of license plates; black which indicate army vehicles (our army), yellow plates indicating regular Israelis, which of course there is no such thing because everyone here is special and you don't have to ask anyone because they'll be sure to let you know; and blue license plates identifying Arab vehicles from the 'occupied territories' - to which I replied, "Hey, I'm also from an occupied territory, Canada!" While the good cop failed to detect my attempted humor, he did warn me against accepting rides from drivers with blue plates. And though he didn't volunteer any details why, even I - fresh of the Boeing - was clever enough to catch his drift: Terrorists are lousy drivers!

Full of Sheep

So there I was standing by the deserted highway outside Arad with my thumb out every time a vehicle with a yellow license plate approached. And every time a blue plate appeared, I immediately withdrew my thumb, turned away from the road and devoted my undivided attention to some convenient sheep grazing nearby, which I pretended were mine.

I will say this: our Arab cousins (what a family!) are a very friendly bunch. Even though it was clear the sheep weren't mine, (my Caucasianess being one clue, my guitar the other), they all honked offering me a ride. "Shukran very much, but can't you see these sheep need me?"

The passing gold-plated Israelis, on the other thumb, were downright rude, or so it appeared. A number of could-be yellow cabs sped by signaling what sure looked like "the finger" to me. Yeah, THAT finger. I was later clued in to the fact that they weren't giving me the finger, but rather a similar local gesture (well, from a distance, at least) meaning 'be patient.' Still, you can imagine how disturbing this must have been at the time, given that my focus was busily divided between yellow plates, blue plates, black plates, and my herd.

After succeeding at reaching the lowest point on earth, and spending the day discovering exactly how shawarma feels  spinning and roasting on a spit, I managed to hitch a ride back with a delightful young immigrant couple from the (still) former Soviet Union.

When the husband with his heavy Russian accent inquired, "From ver you are from?" - I replied Canada, knowing I'd get the same cheerful reaction Canadians always enjoy for being, well, not American.

Instead, the father replied in what was clearly an apologetic tone, saying "vel, vee are only going as far as Arad."

That'll be fine.