Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

I know to nod at the security guard cradling the automatic rifle. He is standing in the spot where most airports would have a hostess of some kind, but perhaps here he is an appropriate welcome mat. I take my place among the locals in the "Israeli Passport" line.

My parents and I moved to Israel in the summer of 1987. We had visited the country before but there had never been any mention of living in this perpetually frictional part of the world. When my parents announced, "Your father and I have decided to move to Israel next year," I realized that it was I, and not my college-bound sister, who would be uprooted.

During my first four years in Israel I scratched off each passing month on a mental desperation chart that resembled an elongated hopscotch board. In the final square I envisioned a leafy college campus, rife with girls, late-night pizza and the self-important smell of leather-bound books. Instead, I was surrounded by talk of "Intifada," "occupation" and, the key to one's future, the "draft board." In class there was an acne-prone kid who spent class periods patiently drawing the symbols of each and every unit in the Israel Defense Forces. Over lunch, he punctuated each symbol with elaborate stories of woe and glory. I nodded gravely when he informed me that every house in Israel had absorbed the toll of service. My mind was made up.

After three years of military service, I left the country to go to college. I was returning now after four years at a leafy New England campus, eager for the answer to the question I'd been asking myself for years: Can I live here?

On my first day back in Jerusalem I take to the streets to visit my old haunts. The first stop is a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant, Pinnati—the place for a true, honest-to-God hummus eating experience. In front of me, a well-dressed businesswoman of the burgeoning Israeli upper class asks for a hummus pocket to go. She requests all of the customary accompaniments to the sandwich: chickpeas, black beans, diced parsley, and olive oil. Then she asks for French fries. An ordinary request, but one the overworked counterman can't allow to slide. "Mammi," he says with a smirk, "French fries make you fat." She laughs good-naturedly and insists upon the dish known locally as "chips." I am glad to know that the boys in Pinnati haven't lost their sense of humor.

Satisfied, I make my way down the sun-beaten promenade in the center of the city. The street is pleasantly roomy but uncomfortably tense—only two days ago, a suicide attack took the lives of 21 people at a disco. Now the locals, who never greet one another unless previously acquainted, allow their stares to linger on passersby, sizing them up in terms of potential threats.

I enter an outdoor supply store, known for its savvy, sweet-talking owner. Morris is an old immigrant from Uruguay. This whole country consists of immigrants, but none, in recent times at least, are more acclimated than the South Americans. "So, you want to know I think? You want to know what I really think?" Morris asks a disinterested worker. The threat of political discourse is a volatile one around here, but they nod, knowing that this question has triggered an inalterable momentum. "What needs to happen is that these," he hesitates, "these people, who bomb us need to be shut down. We should do here like the Russians in Chechnya. Circle the city, ruin the infrastructure, starve the people, and then watch how easily they come to the bargaining table."

I am looking at river sandals during this tirade, and Morris, after excusing himself, pats me on the shoulder and says, "I hope you will still buy sandals from me." I don't, but not because I am offended. I just want to be safely out the door before the discussion inevitably turns toward me. No one is permitted the luxury of abstaining in such a debate: Obscurity, I have found out over the years, is a hard-earned commodity around here.

I am sweating by the time I escape from the camping supply store and ice cream seems to be the natural solution. There is a place next to The Backgammon Club called Sefer ve'Sefel, Book and Mug. It is on an alley and up a winding staircase. The owner of the shop has sad eyes and an infinite knowledge of faces and books. Over the years I've bought scores of books here and on the rare occasion that he has not read the book, he has at least heard of it and knows where to find it. He is presently leaning against the doorway, smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper. I can't make out the pictures but I am sure that the content, two days after the attack, is filled with grief, mourning, and bravado. That is the protocol.

A customer asks the owner for a recommendation for her son. "Your son?" he asks the woman with the modestly covered hair and long-sleeved dress. "The one with the ponytail who reads science fiction?" The woman nods, commenting on how different they are in looks and dress. She is a God-fearing woman, she says; her son refuses to cut his hair and is obsessed with kung fu. "Don’t worry," the owner soothes. "It's important for him to choose his own path."

This scene is so far removed from the plastic smiles of Barnes and Noble that I am transfixed. Back in the street, I can't help but wonder what advice this amicable storekeeper with the sad eyes would have for me. But there's one thing I do know: I feel at home.