My Life in Israel as a Solo Senior Immigrant

As I played a few games of Israeli hopscotch this morning with several children in the park, I turned to one of the mothers and said, “Two years ago I made Aliyah at an advanced age like Abraham. My primary goal was to learn to walk upright like an Israeli. Have I succeeded?”

“Take a few steps,” she said.

As I walked back and forth along the pathway she shouted, “You succeeded!”

I was a full member of the community in this area. When they decided to take an ensemble photograph, I was told to join the group.

As a solitary new immigrant, I loved being fully accepted by all of them. They were my surrogate family. In fact, in many ways, all of Israel was my family. If ever I got lost on the street and forgot how to get to where I needed to be that day, someone would come over and say, “Can I help you?” This was the Israel I hoped for, a land of mother’s milk as it were. I could be at home here, no matter the place or the time; on a bus, on a train, in Tel Aviv or in Jerusalem. Everyone would reach out to me, and I would reach out to anyone. The country had an extremely varied population, conflicted on many issues, but with God’s help, I could adjust.

I once saw an elderly lady wheeling a cart teeming with food and I asked her, “Is this just for today or for the Sabbath?” She said, “Say with God’s help!” I didn’t understand why she told me to repeat those words until I realized that she needed me to give the Lord all the credit for her good life. I had to repeat the phrase over and over until she was satisfied.

One day an ultra-orthodox young man wearing a black outfit brushed past me as I was en route to the local pharmacy in my area of central Tel Aviv. I called out to him, “Can you teach me something from this week’s Biblical portion?” He turned around and immediately launched his lesson.

“Do you know what the word khelev means?”

“The fat of a sacrificed animal,” I said.

“Yes, the best part of the animal! We must give our best in the service of God.”