The 14th of Kislev

14th of Kislev

For most people, the 14th of Kislev is not a significant day in their diary. But for my wife and myself, it is momentous. That is because four years ago it became our Aliyah day.

It took me over sixty years to get here, and Baruch Hashem we finally made it to live in Israel with our children and grandchildren. From my earliest childhood memories, I wanted to go and live in Israel. Unfortunately, through various circumstances, it never happened.

Below, are just some of the memories and events that kept the dream of Aliyah alive.

I was brought up in Edgware which is Northwest London. There we had an independent club called Chevron, which met on Shabbat afternoons. Nowadays, when everything has a label (not something I subscribe to as I believe it is divisive), you would call it a religious Zionist club. So many former members have made Aliyah, the ultimate recognition of being a Zionist.

My primary school was called Rosh Pinah, where on Tu B’ishvat, a cardboard Jewish National fund charity box was given to every pupil in which there was a Jaffa orange.

The Chazan of the Great Synagogue Dukes place (pre-World War two, London’s premier Shool) was my Zeida’s best friend. He published what we now refer to as “Birkon”in 1937 with sheet music in it. For “Shir Hamaalot in “Birkat Hamazon,” it simply has written, “to be sung to the tune of the Hatikvah.” It is now sitting on my bookshelf here.

The Six-day war was a landmark. Suddenly Jews outside of Israel had a country that could defend itself. The pride was enormous. People had pictures of Rav Goren zt”l blowing the shofar at the Kotel (called “The great moment”) and Moshe Dayan in their windows. There were bumper stickers (fender for those from the USA) with the words “ I am backing Israel.” You will not see this in London today.

If you could buy anything Israeli, you did, whether it was fruit or sabra liqueur. To get a crochet Kappel (“kippah serugah”) was always an aim.

The days of not being able to visit the Old City were now over. What had been known as the Wailing Wall was now called by its correct name the Western Wall or the Kotel. A friend told me of the danger he faced of being too near old city before the six-day war due to the Jordanian army snipers. A neighbour here who lost a young family member at the time confirmed this.

My first visit to Israel was a few days before Chanukah 1967, a mere six months after the war. There were so many outstanding memories. They included going to the Kotel, seeing the decapitated statue in Gaza city which had previously a sword pointing at Tel Aviv, and seeing how small the oranges were in the Arab farms we passed compared to the Jaffa oranges we knew.

When we returned in 1973, I could not get my bearings at the Kotel. It was of course because the Kotel plaza that we are all so familiar these days, had not been completed in 1967.

There is so much that we take for granted in our country as well as in life itself. I never tire of looking at the vista when on a journey. Each trip to Yerushalayim is always special, even when I am not going to the Kotel.

As I mentioned earlier, there was a general movement to associate with Israel. One of these was that the Shool decided to change the reading to the Sephardi pronunciation. This works well except for those times when the “kamatz” vowel is not pronounced as a “patach,” but rather as a “kamatz” (the sound of O not Ah). The publishing of the Rinat Siddur was a huge bonus as the vowels have a bigger and bolder font if the “kamatz” is pronounced. On that trip I proudly bought a copy of the siddur.

However, on my return to the UK, I was in for a shock. I had been sold the Ashkenaz siddur for those who live in Israel, not for those who live outside, where the liturgy is different in parts. That Siddur sat on my bookshop from 1973 until 2020 when we made Aliyah. I never gave up on Aliyah. The pages look old from the side (not surprising), but the pages are in mint condition.

It was with a sense of thanks to Hashem and great pride when I was finally able to daven from the Siddur.

I volunteered in 1973 to come to Israel during the Yom Kippur war. It was all going well until the Jewish Agency asked for my date of birth and realized that I was too young to volunteer.

This mirrored my Dad zl who volunteered for the British army when he was underage in order to find his brother who was prisoner of war held by the Italians. His oldest brother who was sent to retrieve Dad from the enlistment centre was later to become a prisoner of the Japanese. It is one of the reasons that the current hostage situation is very real to the family. My Uncles’ wartime stories are bli neder for another day.

The phone call to our children to let them know that we were now coming was so special. No more horrible returns to London after a holiday in Isreal leaving our children and grandchildren and not seeing them for a period of time. I pre-empted the call by sending pictures of the two Siddurim as a cryptic message.

We finally came to Israel in the middle of COVID, with multiple medical restrictions in place.

Because of the extra restrictions that we personally had; we could not make an Aliyah leaving party. However, two of my cousins were not to be deterred. They arrived after Shabbat with Pizza, chocolate, and coffee eclairs (a personal favourite) and drinks. They were put in the porch, we then took them into the house, and we communicated through are window using the mobile phones. Another cousin who had also come to wish us well completed the party. It was exceedingly difficult saying goodbye to much loved family that you could not even see properly let alone hug.

The next day, we were surprised by a large number of people who were outside our house when we were close to traveling time who had come to see us off. The place had been decorated with Israeli flags. The most moving part was when a young friend of ours called Shloime (who faces his own challenges in life) spoke unprepared with such beautiful words that brought everyone to tears. As I mentioned before, no hugs.

Leaving our old house was easy, we never even looked back. The thrill of making Aliyah outweighed any thoughts of reminiscences. One of our mechutanim took us to the airport, again no hugs when we left him.

Because of the COVID risk we wore masks all the time and were advised not to even eat on the plane during the flight Again all that we were focused was on arriving.

We sent a short video message when we were on the plane to our children. Only hours to go until our arrival.

Baruch Hashem, we arrived at Ben Gurion. The Jewish agency was supposed to hand us our papers, rather than the meeting that Olim usually have when they arrive. Unfortunately, our papers were not there. A wait of over an hour ensued. The thought was now “hurry up, our children and grandchildren are waiting for us.” We had been to Israel in Intifadas, but in comparison to Aliyah day, the airport was busy. Ours was the only flight with I guess less than twenty passengers. Literally, the only people in the airport besides us were the representative of the Jewish agency, the taxi driver they sponsor and a porter.

Finally, we were on the way. We phoned the children to say not long now.
WRONG!! The taxi driver to took us to a road in Beit Shemesh called Rechov, whereas we wanted a Nachal in Ramat Beit Shemesh. He wanted us to get at a roundabout where there were no buildings. He told my son in law that Beit Shemesh and Ramat Beit Shemesh are the same areas. Finally, he agreed to reset Waze, and we were on our way again.

We knew when we were in the right road when we saw a “guard of honor,” our children and grandchildren old enough to be awake were lining the street with sparklers.

As we were singing “veshavau vanim,” someone put on the outside lights of the building to enhance the simcha. Baruch Hashem we were finally home.
We have a big flag proudly flying on our mirpeset, and whole lot more for Yom Haatzmaut.

To those who have made Alyah, and in particular for those who have to wait until later in life, the feeling of achieving a lifetime dream is amazing. I look out of the window every morning and thank Hashem for the blessing of living here in Isarel.

That is why I tell people that I have a Teudat zechut, not a Teudat zehut. It is a zechut, an honor for us to live in Israel.

Despite all that is happening, there is nowhere else in the world we would rather be.