Finding a place to call home

DVORA WAYSMAN

Israel, like life, is something that happened to me when I wasn’t looking. It can be hard for family and friends from my birthplace to understand why “home” for me now means Israel. I was born, as were my parents, in Australia, known by many as “the lucky country.” It is a beautiful, spacious, sun-burnt land much praised in poetry and song, and throngs of tourists flock there annually to sample its surf beaches, its cosmopolitan cities, its magnificent coral reefs and unique outback bushland. I was happy there, and will always have fond memories and warm feelings for it.

Then I lived for a few years in London and it, too, captured my heart. It represented the best of all I knew in literature – a pulsating, vibrant city, steeped in dignity and history. I lived there from the age of 19 for three years and, when I think of those golden years of youth and my first taste of independent living, the setting is the majesty of London.

So why did I choose Israel? It is a mystery that I still haven’t solved. It was certainly not my idea to come here but my husband’s. He wanted our four children to know that they had a homeland. I fought it vigorously.

When resentment is festering in your heart, nothing is beautiful or welcoming and I was probably the most reluctant immigrant ever to make aliyah. Of course, I knew enough Jewish history to understand about Abraham, who responded to the Divine urge to leave the land of his birth to travel to an unknown Promised Land. I also knew that for 2,000 years, since the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, Jews through the ages have sought ways to return from the lands of their dispersion to their ancient homeland Eretz Yisrael.

But what did that have to do with me? At the time, in 1971, religion was on the fringe of my life, Zionism was just a word and I certainly wasn’t living in a country of distress. Neither had I personally experienced any real antisemitism. Aliyah, meaning ascension, was actually a big step down in quality of life and living standards. At the time, however, it seemed I had no choice in the matter.

You don’t fall in love with Israel easily. It doesn’t “grab” at your senses like the boulevards of Paris, the enchantment of Tuscany or the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland. It is much more subtle. I had lived in Jerusalem for years before, one day, I realized it had captured my heart. After that, the city never let go.

I suppose it began with the people. Not the well-known names that dot every city and town here – Herzl, Jabotinsky, Weizmann, Ben-Gurion ... but the ordinary people, whose lives add up to the extraordinary story of modern Israel. Most of them were born abroad, and they bring to the state the culture of the world – a human, ethnic mosaic. Even when I visit Mahaneh Yehudah, Jerusalem’s outdoor fruit and vegetable market, among the shoppers, I still see old ladies shuffling along wearing the faded costumes of their forgotten communities. It is a place where everyone rubs elbows ... saints, sinners, philosophers, cobblers, spice merchants, professors, nuns, holy men, doctors and housewives. A friend of mine, now passed on, used to tell me he liked to stand on the corner “and watch all the poems walk by.”

Eventually, I discovered the Kotel, the Western Wall, Judaism’s holiest site. I was unmoved when I first saw it. Once, however, when I really needed to pray, I went there at dawn and communed one–to–One with the Creator. I can never explain the sense of peace and serenity that washed over me like a blessing. They say G-d’s presence has never departed from there, and now – in any time of trouble – it is where I go for comfort and guidance. I have never been disappointed.

They say that if you live in Israel and don’t believe in miracles, then you are not a realist. They’re right. We expect miracles all the time – we even rely on them. The state of Israel, having survived for 65 years despite never-ceasing efforts to destroy it, is a miracle. Just as the Six Day War victory – that we commemorate and celebrate this week – was a miracle, as the Entebbe rescue was a miracle. Y’hiyeh b’seder ... it will be OK, is one of the most common sentences heard here, covering everything from financial to marital to health problems. It’s not uttered for comfort, but because we really believe it to be true.

When we travel anywhere in Israel, our hearts are buoyed by the unique beauty of the land: Eilat in the south with its turquoise waters, palm trees and flamboyant coral reefs; the loneliness and stark symmetry of the Negev Desert; the lunar landscape of the Dead Sea area, and the ibex silhouetted against the skyline of Ein Gedi; the inspiration of Masada; the sparkling waters of the Kinneret; the lushness of the Galilee and the Jezreel Valley; the majesty of the Golan Heights. Everywhere, we witness the holy sites and archeological evidence of biblical stories and the rest of Jewish history, the landscape entering into every pore of our bodies, until we become saturated with its solemn weight and significance.

I have lived in Jerusalem for 42 years. It has not always been easy, but I know that every time I leave, it feels like an amputation. If one day I am granted a place in Paradise, I am convinced it will look just like Jerusalem.

Dvora Waysman is the author of 13 books, including The Pomegranate Pendant (now a movie) and its sequel Seeds of the Pomegranate, Woman of Jerusalem (poetry), the novels Esther – A Jerusalem Love Story and In a Good Pasture, and her memoir My Long Journey Home. The books are available through Amazon, or from the author at [email protected]. Her website is dvorawaysman.com.

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