Frayed but unbroken

A ten-thousand-mile trial by air, paperwork, and persistence

I’d like to say this journey was like slowly pulling off a bandage, but the peak moments could be more akin to a Brazilian wax. There was an incredible amount of effort to get to Mexico City from Toronto.  This last step of Aliyah – CDMX to Tel Aviv via Frankfurt – nearly did us in.  Reflecting on the harrowing experience, I have little desire to repeat it. Ever.

Within twenty-four hours of becoming a citizen, my adopted homeland went to war.

“How did I get here?” Whenever I say that, I’m reminded of the lyrics in the Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime.  It’s a catchy tune that never provides an answer for that question.  Life’s little foibles.  The beautiful mess of living a sometimes-imperfect life has caught up with me.

You may have read about our adventures in getting to Mexico City, and the reasoning that led to a dramatic change of address.  Nonetheless, a series of flagrant fiascos materialized upon our exit from the daily routines of our composed life in CDMX.  We always expected a little upheaval in the transition – but for this much, I would have chosen to medicate myself.

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After a grueling 24-hour voyage, we make it to Israel. This is not an easy feat.

We leave our Airbnb in Mexico with six huge suitcases, two personal items, two carry-ons –  which consists of two of our three dogs and one ITA-approved crate to contain the nasty little chiweenie, Gus.  Aside from being the youngest and the most resilient, he’s also the most rambunctious of the three.  He’s bitten people. We’re up to six now.

We manage to get to the airport without incident and arrive at the Lufthansa check-in desk with two carriages and a lot of muscle power.  When we try to check in, we have a rude surprise.  The counter clerk is asking for a special certificate so the dogs can board the plane. This isn’t part of the paperwork we received from our wonderful Mexican vet who took the extra time to make sure all the t’s were crossed and the I’s were dotted.  This is a different certificate –  one that must be applied for three days in advance of the flight from a government office located in the airport.  Our faces fall to the ground.

So, we dash down and beg for leniency. They agree to do the best they could, considering the circumstances.  We’re a little peeved with Lufthansa for not making us aware of this requirement beforehand.  I mean, how many google searches can you do on the conditions of international travel with pets?

A second hiccup! Since our vet’s papers list Israel as the final destination, we must meet Israeli requirements. We think we have that base covered—but apparently not. They’re not asking for the lab results from the expensive rabies antibody count for each dog, but something else we don’t understand. We have a layover in Frankfurt. If we amend our documents to list Germany as the final destination, the Mexican authorities will accommodate us, as the German requirements are less stringent.

So, our only realistic option is to get new documents from another vet. What!? Go to a vet near the airport? Our flight leaves at 20:00. Fortunately, this vet is willing to make a house call to the airport. Evidently, we’re not the first people to fall into this trap. I don’t think it’s an official money grab, but it’s certainly a lucrative opportunity for the vet. She comes and rewrites the report. She also helps us with translation. She’s well worth the fee we pay. We run back upstairs to finalize our check-in. We’re cutting it very close. Fortunately, we arrived early at the terminal.

Then there’s another computer glitch—not Lufthansa’s software, but a literal incident. I have my computer packed in a protective case. I decide to keep my battery backup, which is a sealed lead-acid battery pack, not lithium-ion, and therefore eligible and permitted to be put in cargo. The airport staff doesn’t like the look of the black box, even though I have the documentation. I don’t blame them. It does look like a bomb. So, we wait again. The clock is ticking. The staff reassures us that the plane won’t leave without us. We wait for the military to come and inspect the equipment. The soldier isn’t in a rush

Once the bomb-lookalike is certified for travel, we’re escorted by Lufthansa staff so we can cut to the front of the line for security checks. Surprisingly, I have no issue with my metallic hip. We rush to find our gate, the two wriggling little dogs in tow. We said our goodbyes to Gus back at the Lufthansa check-in counter.

We find the gate. We board. The flight to Frankfurt is ten hours long. I sleep fitfully, at best.

We arrive in Frankfurt. We make it through customs effortlessly. Nobody even asks for any of the dogs’ certificates. Thank you, Mexico, for your efficiency! We pick up Gus and retrieve our luggage. We’re hauling two mountains of suitcases on two carriages.

Arrival at Frankfurt. We’re about to find out those carriages with suitcases do not fit in the elevators. The dogs are waiting for their ride to the Hundezentrum.

Before heading to the hotel, we need to find our contacts from the doggy hotel—the Hundezentrum. Since we arrive more than twenty minutes late, they’ve already left. They’re not picking up the phone. On my tenth try—using an unconventional method, I think with my Mexican SIM chip—I finally get through. We arrange for the pickup of all three dogs.

Then we trudge back through the airport to find an elevator that will take us up to the hotel, which is located on the departures level.

For some God-forsaken reason, Frankfurt Airport has the smallest elevators. I can’t believe it. Usually, airport elevators are big enough to fit a smart car or three hospital gurneys. But in this one, I can barely squeeze in the carriage. We manage—in six trips.

Once we’re in the hotel, we’re well taken care of. We order room service—another privilege. Exhausted, we sleep in. Then we pull ourselves together. We contact the Hundezentrum for doggy pickup and, with some effort, make it to the El Al check-in desk. Except—again—there’s a glitch.

Since we have so many suitcases, the very unhappy hotel porter takes the cart down a special elevator. Because the bags are out of our sight for five minutes—and because Simon mentions this to the El Al pre-flight security screener (some of whom are trained by Shin Bet)—she asks us to unpack and repack every suitcase, making sure to check every pocket. The hotel porter could have planted something in our luggage.

I unpack, check every crevice, and repack the bags. It takes me at least fifteen minutes. The security screener watches me. We talk about dogs and Israeli food.

crate again as a matter of policy. We’re embarrassed—we’ve thrown in our previous day’s clothing. The laundry is meant to comfort Gus with our scent. A very disgruntled airport employee searches the crate and complains about the dirty clothes.

Gus in his crate, our makeshit clothes hamper.

We arrive in Tel Aviv without incident. Unfortunately, it’s Erev Shavuot, a holiday. There’s minimal staff. The customs officer looks at us like we’re two-headed aliens who’ve just landed from Venus. He has no idea what to do with us. We can’t be the first to make Aliyah on a holiday… can we?

But we fall between the cracks. Our documents haven’t arrived, and the Aliyah staff has already gone home. There’s nobody here to greet us. We look at each other with incredulous stares.

An alarm starts. There’s an incoming Houthi missile. Airport staff direct us to a stairwell—the closest protected part of the airport. This is becoming a blur.

When we return to customs, we face a different agent who also doesn’t know what to do with us. She quickly asks a colleague for advice. Then she promptly prints out two green tickets—tourist visas. We’re all too happy. We grab them and make a run for it.

We collapse in our Airbnb and finally unwind. The travel fiascos are over. Or so we think. Little do we know that our paperwork journey—now nineteen months in the making—still risks last-minute derailment.

Once we’re refreshed, Simon starts calling around to figure out how we obtain our Teudat Zehut, the citizenship card. Sonja, Simon’s boss, is eager to have him start work. She also feels partly responsible for drawing him here. Since it’s a holiday, she knows we don’t have access to basic household supplies or essentials. She brings over some groceries, along with cleaning and paper products.

In order to work, Simon will need the Teudat Oleh, the immigrant card. Sonja thinks she knows people who can help us retrieve the documents.

Sergio, a wonderful soul who oversees Olim from Latin America, paves the way. He sets up a meeting with Yael at the government office in Herzliya.

In my excitement—and maybe also a bit of greed for this new citizenship—I more than gently push Simon to go around the line and talk to the security guard at the door. Not knowing Hebrew, I don’t much care about the complaints coming from the others in the queue. I apologize profusely to Simon for embarrassing him. He’s already nervous enough.

We plunk ourselves down in front of Yael, finally within reach of our goal after so many months and miles. Another glitch.

She asks us for the white form we were supposed to receive at the airport. She even shows us a copy. Yael doesn’t believe us when we tell her that all we received were the Border Control Entry Slips—little green tickets. She insists it’s impossible to enter without the white form. Yet here we are.

She tells us she can’t help. We cajole. We plead.

Lo, lo, lo, lo! Ken! Ken! (Hebrew for No, no, no, no! Yes! Yes!)

We appeal to her sense of humanity. Please help us! She calls Sergio, and he answers. There’s a quick exchange in Hebrew that Simon can’t follow. She hangs up. She’s come up with a solution: she’ll see us the next day, when she can sit down and concentrate on our case. The process will take over an hour.

So we return the following day. As I pass through the metal detector, I once again ritually remove my belt—just as the guard tells me to keep it on. I explain that I’m so used to airport protocol when it comes to metal detectors. I also mention, again, that I have a metal hip. Apparently, the new and improved Israeli scanners can differentiate between a weapon and metal embedded in your body. Finally, an upgrade to an old technology.

My hope is that the Israeli Embassy in Mexico City gets the opportunity to acquire one of these scanners soon. On my last visit there, I had to show a security officer my surgical scar. Yes—I literally had to pull down my pants in Mexico! I wasn’t upset then. I understood: if you’re the world’s most hated people, you can’t afford to take chances.

Ironically, after all that hassle with the Israeli Embassy in Mexico, we’re about to find out they made a clerical error on Simon’s visa. Yael is able to fix it, but she’s clearly agitated by the fact that he has a 4a instead of a 4b. The difference in Israel is significant. The former means Simon is considered the “son of Jewish” but not confirmed Jewish. Here we go again.

Simon explains that he couldn’t be more Jewish. He’s ready to pull out both of his Bar Mitzvah certificates. She says it’s not necessary—the letter from the rabbi is sufficient.

All is good—we move on to the next stage. Yael is completing the documents. She takes our pictures again, in addition to the passport photos we had taken the day before for this very visit. She scans our index fingerprints. These will be used for our permanent biometric Teudat Zehut.

She returns from the laminator with our new temporary identity cards and pops them into their little plastic pouches. The biometric cards will be mailed to us.

Ta-da! We have our Teudat Zehut (תעודת זהות). We are citizens! I’m elated. After nineteen months, this paper trail finally comes to an end…

Moments after receiving our Teudat Zehut. Victory!!

Or so I thought.

There are some loose ends. We need the Teudat Oleh (תעודת עולה) to unlock immigrant benefits—and for Simon to be able to work at the hospital. The document also activates his Israeli medical license. For me, the big deal is 500 hours of free Hebrew lessons.

So, we rush to the Ministry of Aliyah and Absorption office, just off Dizengoff Square—basically downtown—a 25-minute drive from where we’re staying in Herzliya.

At first, almost by rote, the counselors tell us it’ll take thirty days to receive the document. Simon was supposed to start work the previous Tuesday. It’s now Wednesday, June 11. Eyeroll. Simon persists. We haven’t come this far to face another delay.

We explain our story once again. This time, though, Simon has a contact in the office—Rachel. Sapir takes our documents and says she’ll do what she can. Simon sends a text to Rachel, thanking her for all her help. But we both know the message is also a gentle nudge.

At nine in the morning on June 12, Sapir calls to inform us that both Teudat Olim are ready. The final key.

I repeat: this is June 12.

We storm back into the agency and scoop up the documents. As of today, we are officially Israeli.

The ink on the certificates is barely dry. We wake up on the morning of June 13 to discover that Israel is at war with Iran. The first dramatic attacks occurred overnight, in the early hours of the morning.

Operation Rising Lion. The primary goal of the operation: to eradicate Iran’s nuclear weapons program—the premier, imminent, and ultimate existential threat to Israel.

Embed from Getty Images

Diplomacy has failed. Threats have failed to intimidate. So, in its usual fashion, Israel launches a pre-emptive strike.

The inspiration for the name of this pre-emptive strike comes from the Bible, the Book of Numbers (23:24): “Behold, the people shall rise up as a great lion…” Everything that happens in Israel is always biblical. Whether you’re a believer, an agnostic, or an atheist—Jewish, Christian, or Muslim—you’ll acknowledge this basic fact.

The rumour mill starts. I’m not sure how much accuracy there is to any of it. Diaspora Persians think it’s their rising lion—that the Lion will reappear on the Iranian flag once the despots are overthrown. Other, more cynical Israelis say the timing was Sarah Netanyahu’s whim. Sarah doesn’t like her future daughter-in-law and allegedly tried to sabotage the wedding scheduled for the following Monday.

No matter. The bridge is crossed.

Simon adapts slowly with each air raid siren we receive. Now, on the fourth day, we have a routine. We sleep in the mamad—the bomb shelter—as it doubles as the master bedroom. The dog bed has been relocated to our room. Every morning now, we wake up smelling like dogs.

One happy Israeli family enjoying the early evening at the Tel Aviv beach

When the alarm goes off, we secure the steel door, which must be more than two inches thick. The mamads have proven very effective.

Never in a million years did I think I’d become an Israeli citizen. Never in a trillion did I imagine I’d have front-row seats to a war zone—conceivably the biggest historical event of the 21st century.

It took us nineteen months to reach this goal, and it feels like overnight we were parachuted into a war. We knew this day would eventually come for Israel—but we never imagined it would coincide almost exactly with our arrival. Simon is notoriously known for his bad sense of timing. He certainly makes up for it with his planning skills. Still, he feels defeated. This is the anticlimax he wasn’t expecting.

I, on the other hand, am thriving—despite the alerts two to three times a day. I’m being a real Israeli. On the morning after the first siren, I march down to the Mediterranean. We’d been so busy chasing papers, I hadn’t had a single chance to swim. I wade into the warm water. The waves lap against my body. I never go deeper than where I can still stand. I swim, and it is glorious. I haven’t been swimming in nearly two years. Now, I can go every day.

Tel Aviv beach during Operation Rising Lion – Covid lock down vibes

I look back at the cream-coloured beach and the radiant white towers of Tel Aviv stretching for miles to the north and south of me. This bright light harmonizes with the lapis lazuli sky and the sea’s turquoise tones. I feel I’ve arrived. This is where I want to be. I feel I’ve discovered a new space—a luminous aether—somewhere between Heaven and Earth. The swells in the water rock me gently. I’m reminded of my childhood, when I would spend hours in the choppy, fresh waters of Windy Lake.

I capture this peculiar sliver of time, and I will guard it forever. Savour it.