After 40 years in Israel, I admit I am not a Sabra

In September 1983, when I stepped on the Land of Israel for the first time in my life, I prepared to learn my new home by identifying with Israel, from the language to felafel.

My childhood Hebrew language education was limited to learning verses from the Torah about sacrificial rituals and pre-1948 stories about “Palestine” at “afternoon school” twice a week and on Sunday mornings.

I prepared myself for life as a stranger in my own home by paying for private Hebrew lessons from a native Israeli. I also signed up with the Sar El Volunteers for Israel organization, which at the time recruited people to take on menial jobs at Israeli army bases and free soldiers for combat in the war in Lebanon. The program guaranteed me free room and board for 30 days.

I had no expectations or anticipation of anything before landing at Ben Gurion Airport, but I was surprised by the balmy weather and the sight of palm trees. My first thought as I walked down the steps from the plane was that the weather was like Florida.

I should have immediately realized that comparing Israel to the Diaspora is a sign that transforming myself into a Sabra was not going to be too successful, but youth and the illusion of being a free soul allow for a very healthy imagination.

I demanded that everyone help me improve my Hebrew and refused to speak a word of English to anyone. Native Israelis, after hearing my slightly drawled greeting of “Shalom”, immediately replied to me in English  My American accent was destined to be stronger than I am.

During my army stint of washing jerrycans and packing duffel bags, I hopped on a bus to Ashkelon and ordered my first-ever felafel. I relied on my childhood Hebrew and prayers, which included “ Blessed are You… who creates various kinds of spices,” part of the Havdalah prayers after the end of Shabbat.

No desire to be like a Sabra could convince me to enjoy spicy food, so I confidently ordered the felafel “bli samim” but was insulted when everyone within hearing distance burst out laughing.

I angrily asked in my broken Hebrew why they were making fun of me just because I wanted a felafel without hot peppery spices. It was only then that I learned that the word for sharp spices in modern Hebrew is “harif”. I unknowingly had ordered felafel without drugs, which in Hebrew is “samim”.

Happy to know that I learned a new word, I continued to immerse myself in Israeli society and decided to live in a community where there were no English speakers.

An Aliyah adviser suggested that I go to Gush Katif. My knowledge of Israeli geography was limited to knowing that Jerusalem is somewhere in the center of the country, Tel Aviv is on the coast and Haifa is to the north. I didn’t know the difference between Gush Chalav, an Arab village near Safed, and Gush Katif, which was a group of nearly two dozen communities in Gaza before the Sharon government expelled the area’s 8600 Jews in 2005.

With my knapsack on my back, I took the bus to Atzmona, which at the time was located 500 meters from the Rafiah crossing on the border with Egypt and which was thoroughly Israeli.

Most of the Hebrew I learned was from my boss, who oversaw building hothouses. His name was Ahmed and he lived in Khan Younis. All I remember about him is that he had six children, was interested in making a good living and did not consider himself to be “occupied”. I have no idea where he is today. He could be a terrorist or a collaborator, dead or alive.

My several months of volunteering at Atzmona instilled in me a good dose of Sabra spirit, but I never could feel like a real native without living on a kibbutz. The members of kibbutz Sa’ad treated me as if I were one of their own, and with their help I met my future wife who was from another kibbutz. She was from London and although not a native Israeli, had been living here since her Aliyah in 1973.

She graciously accepted my suggestion that we speak Hebrew, which eventually we would have done anyway because when I spoke about my pants, she was horrified. In the British language, that refers to undershorts and not trousers, as in the American language.

I immersed myself more in Israeli society and often struck up conversations with Sabras whom I did not know. My knowledge of Israeli culture was limited to my having met two Sephardi Israelis when I lived in the Hillel House in university. All that I remember is that their room was filthy, the food was too spicy and that they enjoyed laughing at me.

All was going very well until during a trip to Akko, when I learned an embarrassing lesson.

We were strolling through the old market where a dark-skinned man sporting a large white skullcap was showing off his wares. I spoke to him as if he were a Chabadnik, much to the amusement of my fiancé who later explained to me he was an Arab.

That should have been a sign for me to take off my Sabra costume and accept my destiny to remain an American immigrant for the rest of my life.

It took our two daughters to unknowingly convince me. On a trip to my niece and her family in South Carolina, we were stuck in the Atlanta airport for four hours. As we walked by the stores, I suddenly noticed a drink dispensing machine with A & W root beer.

After so many years in Israel, I had forgotten about my former favorite drink. I eagerly bought a can despite my wife’s insistence that its only healthy ingredient was water, and even that was open to question.

I told my daughters, “This drink is fantastic. Take a sip.” Both of them hesitantly brought the can of root beer to their faces, took one whiff and shoved it aside while exclaiming, “Yech. It smells like medicine.”

I was in shock. My very own Sabra daughters rejected my favorite American drink, but then it finally dawned on me that although I had left the Diaspora, the Diaspora still had not left me.

My advice for newcomers and visitors is don’t try to fake it. You don’t have to wear your foreign culture on your sleeve, but you also shouldn’t think you can pose as a Sabra and try to fool others, only to fool yourself.

By the way, give me a call if you want a recommendation on where to buy a delicious felafel without drugs.