How to love in Israel without losing yourself

Only in Israel does a manicure come with unsolicited, blunt life advice.

A few days ago, mid-polish, my manicurist looked up at me. She knows my story. She knows I am divorced from an Israeli and that navigating the “after” has not always been simple.

She stopped filing and held my hand in hers. “I think it is bad news when an immigrant marries an Israeli,” she said.

She didn’t hesitate. “The immigrant will always lose.”

I just stared at her with wide eyes. Her words were sharp, but her tone wasn’t. It was strange, but it almost felt maternal. It was protective, even.

The warmth of her hand enveloping mine took me back to my recurring fantasy, the dream of having a Safta, an Israeli grandmother, waiting for me when I first landed here as a naïve young woman.

In my mind, she lives in a small, third-floor apartment in Tel Aviv with those plastic “trisim” shutters that are always halfway closed against the sun. She invites me in, sits me down at a table covered in a heavy lace cloth, and makes me Elite instant coffee in a glass mug.

She puts out a plate of those flower-shaped, jam-filled cookies, takes my hand, and whispers the secrets of how to love in this country without losing myself.

You must be a master of something

When you move here, you will often feel small. You will stutter in the grocery store. You will misread the bills. You will feel, so often, like a child in an adult’s world. To survive this, you must have one place where you are a giant. Find a trade, a skill, or a craft, and become excellent at it. Be so good that your confidence in that one area becomes your armor. It is not just about the job. It is about the pride. When the bureaucracy makes you feel powerless, your craft will remind you of who you are. It will carry you through the hardest days.

Your tongue must learn the land

Do not live in translation. It is comfortable to let your partner order for you at the restaurant, explain the news, or argue with the insurance company. But if you do that, you are a guest in your own home. You must break your teeth on this language. You must speak it imperfectly, loudly, and without shame. Because the day may come when you need to stand in a courtroom, or a bank, or a school, and speak for yourself. You cannot rely on a translator to defend your life.

You need sisters, not just in-laws

Your partner’s family may be a blessing, but they are not your army. You need to build your own village. You need to find the friends who don’t know you as a “partner” or a “mother” but as you. You need the women who will answer the phone at 2:00 AM when the sirens go off or when your heart breaks. These friends are the safety net that belongs to you.

I never found that warm apartment with the lace tablecloth.

Like so many immigrants, I spent years feeling a specific, hollow kind of loneliness. It was the feeling of being a transplant with shallow roots, looking for someone to teach me how to grow here.

But looking back, I realize that I was being taught.

Israel herself became my Safta.

This country is not a gentle grandmother. She doesn’t pinch your cheeks and tell you that you are pretty. She is the tough, gritty matriarch who gives you the instructions, pushes you out the door, and tells you to figure it out.

Through the challenges, the bureaucracy, and the lonely nights, Israel forced me to find those three things. She forced me to master my work because I needed an anchor. She forced me to break my teeth on the language because I needed to be heard. And she forced me to find my sisters because I needed a family.

Maybe I projected that maternal feeling onto my manicurist because a part of me will always look for that protective love. She was wrong, though. The immigrant doesn’t have to lose.

We just have to listen to the tough, ancient love this country is trying to give us. We have to plant our feet, earn our confidence, and let our roots go deep.

Embed from Getty Images