Here’s the truth that nobody is going to tell you: you may just be in for the worst 6 months (or so) of your life.
That’s the side of aliyah that you don’t see in the ads, or the videos, or the posters or the shots of smiling, happy families at the airport.
My family’s not in those shots.
You won’t see my son, lying kicking and wailing on the floor of the airport.
You won’t see my daughter, weeping because she misses our family in Canada.
You won’t see me in our apartment at the merkaz klitah, screaming and crying in the middle of the night because my husband cannot make the cruddy Israeli beach karaoke – literally the loudest music I’d ever heard, and I’ve been to more than a few concerts – go away at 3 a.m. on Shabbos morning until I finally fell asleep with a pillow over my head.
Or the kids lying in bed calling out, “Juke! Juke!” (cockroach, cockroach)
I don’t know if I’d call it the worst six months, but it was definitely a difficult period. A very difficult period.
Friends of ours spent 6 months in Israel a year or so before we came. They'd just had a baby, so he had parental leave, and they’d always wanted to spend time here. Everything went wrong - absolutely everything.
Hello, yes, it’s me, still obsessing over the bathrooms here. I started this series thinking I’d better get down the stuff that tickles me while I can, before it all starts to seem commonplace.
But (and maybe this is just because I’m a bit juvenile that way) bathrooms continue to amuse me everywhere we go (one reason I enjoy Batya’s infrequent series, A Pisher’s Guide to Jerusalem).
Something tells me I’m not the only one. My fifth most popular post here is a Things that are cool in Israel episode all about Israeli bathrooms. And people are apparently Googling Israeli bathrooms at an astonishing rate. I hope I can help satisfy your curiosity and earn myself a slice of immortality.
(How can I blog about bathrooms when other Israelis are running to shelters? Listen, as my mother says, if I wasn’t laughing, I’d have to cry.)
In some ways, Israelis seem to “get” the idea of bathroom privacy, even more than in North America.
In public bathrooms, for example, the stall walls usually go almost all the way to the floor (except the annoying modern ones that seem to be copying the North American model). Generally, public bathrooms, even the most rudimentary, are more sturdy, soundproof and private here.
(Though I shouldn’t be too smug; it’s more likely here than in North America that the seat itself, a valuable amenity, has mysteriously either been forgotten or stolen.)
Yet in the midst of all this privacy, there’s also an obsession with putting a window in every bathroom. Ideally, in every stall. It’s like they think that the fumes are going to kill you if you have to be closed in with them for too long.
I already shared with you the pictures of our bathroom window in the merkaz klitah. In this picture, the right window is the bathroom; the one on the left is the shower room, which was separate in that apartment. This is the “outside” of the windows. This style always opens downward into the bathroom.
Our new apartment has a different style – your basic swinging-on-a-hinge design which, when open, affords absolutely ZERO privacy.
Here’s the view from the inside. Akiva’s working in the kitchen, but I called him over to say hello.
On the kitchen side, the view looks like this:
This lets me spy on the kids’ bathtimes, or, in this case, figure out what Naomi’s trying to do to her Barbie doll’s hair (ruin it with overbrushing, then overbrush it in a frantic attempt to smooth it out again).
One more weird thing about Israeli public bathrooms. In North America, when you get into the stall, the door swings freely, and then there is some type of mechanism to latch the door.
The mechanism varies, but in general, a single mechanism does both things – closes the door AND locks it. So when you’re done, you only have to unlatch the door and it’s pretty much open.
Here in Israel, for whatever reason, they have made this a two-step operation. Almost every public bathroom has two things: a handle (not a doorknob) to open and close the door, and a latch to lock it.
To get out, you have to reverse things: unlock the door, then open it with the handle. I don’t know why this is, at all.
I’m thinking maybe they should visit North America and see how productively we use all the nanoseconds we save by not having to repeatedly rescue ourselves from bathrooms (or, in my case, trying to shove the door open because I’ve forgotten there’s also a handle).
Are you willing to bear with me for one more potty-related quirk?
Wherever you are, it’s easy to tell which room is the bathroom, without asking for directions, because every bathroom door seems to have one of two things: a window or a peephole.
In the merkaz klitah, we had a window. They’re frosted, of course, for privacy.
You might think they’re there to let in light, but in this case, more light would have come in the window above the toilet, because the bathroom door opens onto a hallway.
Our current apartment’s bathroom door features the Mysterious Hole instead. Here’s the outside view.
Close up, you can see that it’s not just a hole… it has a weird, broken kind of mesh over it to – um, what? Stop lizards from creeping in while you’re bathing? Stop people from peeking in? (See aforementioned GIANT GAPING WINDOW.)
Here is the inside view.
I literally haven’t figured out the useful purpose of the peephole. It’s not big enough, plus it’s too weird and dusty, to provide significant ventilation or light.
And if somebody comes a-knockin’ at the door, what are the odds that they won’t be able to just say their name when you ask who it is? It’s not like you need to peek out to see who’s there.
This post has gone on too long, but remind me sometime to tell you about the Crusader Bathrooms in Akko. Really, truly. It’s a Real True Thing.
They say Israel is a Land of Mystery. Well, actually, I didn’t read that anywhere; I just made it up. But it could be true.
As you can see, there is plenty here that is mysterious. (Where do those toilet seats go? Are people too cheap to buy them, so they have to steal one from the Afula bus station? Who are these people who are googling “bathrooms in Israel” and driving up my rankings?)
Until I find out, you have my promise that if something bathroom-related happens in Israel, I won’t stop blogging until I get to the bottom of it.
(“Oooh, she said ‘bottom!’” all my British readers are cooing.)
I mean… until I have plumbed the very depths of the mystery.
First, some background. Israelis adore their plastic cutlery, which is mysterious because it is some of the most awful I have experienced in my entire life.
The spoons are the worst – most are shaped in such a way as to slice the sides of my mouth every time I use them.
The other cutlery here isn’t much better – the forks snap, leaving tines scattered everywhere in your food, while the knives have wimpy handles that don’t let you accomplish much of anything.
And don’t get me started on the plastic beverage cups, which, where I come from, would be known as “baggies.” They do have a sort of ring arrangement around the top that prevents them from collapsing utterly when raised to the mouth or lowered to the table – usually.
Nevertheless, the past week having been Pesach, and our dairy Pesach stuff having apparently been thrown away instead of packed meticulously for our lift (!), we have been dependent on plastic cutlery, also known as “chad pa’ami” (חד פעמי), which means “single use” and is a catchall phrase for anything you can use one time and never again – generally because it has fallen apart along the way.
Until our lift arrived, plastic cutlery was pretty much all we used at the merkaz klitah… so it felt really sad to have to go back to it for this week.
(Yeah, they did community kashering in KShmu, so theoretically, we could have hauled all the regular dairy cutlery to be boiled…)
So now that Pesach is over, I’ve written a poem, in tribute to the plastic cutlery that’s been “plaguing” me all week long (get it? Pesach – plaguing?).
Chad paami, how I hate thee All the mouth sores, scrapes and cuts For Passover, but moreover All the damage still remains.
All that plastic, trash fantastic All our money down the drains. And the mouth sores, scrapes and cuts. Eating messy, like a klutz,
All those flimsy plastic handles Stacked beside the yom tov candles How my mouth bleeds and bemoans, While around our table groans
The creak and crack of chad paami Scraping matzah - double whammy Now the chag is gone and through So I can say I'm sick of you!!!
And look!
While googling, I turned up this picture, but I have also seen these in the stores… for people who can’t be bothered buying an actual pot (or cannot afford one): it’s a chad paami POT – made of TINFOIL.
If the quality is anything like the rest of the chad paami in this country, I would fear for my life when using this thing…
Please – share your terrible chad paami experiences (Israeli or otherwise) in the Comments section below!
Now that we’ve been living on our own for a while (two months), many people who meet us are asking the same question: was it a good idea to start out our lives in Israel living in a Merkaz Klitah? Was it good for our family?
First, some basic terminology. A Merkaz Klitah is literally an “absorption centre,” essentially a building run by the Jewish Agency with apartments that are subsidized well below market rates for new olim.
Who can stay in a MK?
The Jewish Agency has certain criteria that determine whether you stay in a MK: I think at least one spouse has to be Jewish, and in general, you must be under 50 at the time of your arrival (beat that bullet by less than 3 weeks, as Akiva had his 50th birthday our third week in Israel). Nobody mentioned that criterion to us, so it may not apply to all of them.
Staying in a MK does NOT depend on your pre-aliyah income, as far as I know, or on how much money you have to spend. However, different merkazei klitah (the plural) have different rules governing how long you’ll be allowed to spend there, and that may also vary by circumstances.
So the first step, if you want to stay in a Merkaz Klitah, is to get friendly with your aliyah shaliach. Because they’re run by the Jewish Agency, they have nothing to do with Nefesh b’Nefesh; in fact, we got the impression that NbN was actually slightly trying to discourage us from our plan to go straight into a MK.
(I’m not sure if this is true or not – it was just an impression!)
We mentioned that we wanted an MK and that we had seen the one in Raanana on our pilot trip. We were very impressed by the multinational makeup of the one we saw in Raanana – but as it turned out, most of the centres in the north are not like that. Up here, they are mainly Russian, with some other eastern Europeans thrown in for good measure.
However, the MK we stayed in, in Kiryat Yam, is somewhat uniquely over 90% Ethiopian.
Thinking about this retroactively, I believe it’s important to ask, if you’re looking at staying in any Merkaz Klitah, is “who else is going to be living there?”
Not out of any reasons of racism, but to make sure you go in with reasonable expectations about the types of bonds you’ll be able to form with your fellow olim living there.
Friendships for life?
Some people have the idea that you will be all buddy-buddy with the other olim in the MK. I’ve even read this – people forge lifelong friendships in a Merkaz Klitah that they carry with them for the rest of their lives in Israel.
Based on our experience, I’d say it really depends. If you happen to find a bunch of likeminded Anglo olim, maybe. Or if you are a gifted social person who can transcend language barriers, again, maybe.
For us, it was very difficult, though we did make some Spanish-speaking friends from Mexico, which was nice. But it’s still awkward having them for meals.
I’ll sum up the rest of my thoughts into Pros and Cons, keeping in mind that this is how these things worked out for OUR family. Your family’s (or your own, if you’re single) experiences could be very, very different.
PROS:
Simple arrival: hop in your free sherut from the airport and your apartment will be set up for you when you arrive.
No complicated paperwork: you don’t need a bank account, cheques, or even a teudat zehut to move in (yay!). (It took us over two weeks to get teudot zehut, during which time we couldn’t open a bank account or order cheques; renting an apartment would have been difficult, if not impossible.)
No buying appliances: rental apartments here generally don’t come with appliances. The MK included a fridge, 2-burner stove and a kettle – enough to get us started.
Utilities – from Day One. We had gas, water, electricity and everything, all turned on from Day One. I cannot tell you how nice that was, having wrangled with those utilities a bit now on our own.
Assistance if needed: we had a “klitah counsellor,” Valentina, who spoke English, Russian and Hebrew, who guided us through opening bank accounts, setting up our kupat cholim (health clinic), and the kids’ school registrations.
Short commute to ulpan: most of the time, the local ulpan is right in the Merkaz Klitah. If you don’t need ulpan, or want a specialized or advanced non-local ulpan, this would be less of a benefit.
Services for kids: depending on the demographics of your MK, they may provide services like homework help for children.
Social life: besides meeting other olim in the hallways, many MKs offer seasonal social events, like Chanukah parties and celebrations for other chagim.
CONS:
The feeling of being “institutionalized.” You don’t feel independent – because you’re not. This can be good (someone comes and changes the lightbulbs when they get stuck), or bad (four washing machines for several hundred people).
Delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later, you will have to move out and get an apartment. Hopefully, your MK stay delays it long enough that you have more Hebrew when that time comes.
Not breaking the ice. There were two categories of other olim in the MK we stayed in: black and white. Sorry, but it’s true. The Ethiopian community were longterm residents – most had been there a few years or more. They are also a very close-knit community; it was hard to tell where families began and ended (and perhaps irrelevant). Since they had their whole social life there around them, they really don’t have much to do with the “levanim” (white people) who come through on a short-term basis. As for the others – apart from some other Canadians, I think the gap, religiously, language-wise, and in other ways, was just too broad for us to even think about crossing. And since we were all moving on in a fairly short time – I think everybody also figures why bother.
Having to move again. Five or six months is about the longest any MK will let you stay… and that’s just about the same amount of time it takes to get yourself and your kids settled comfortably. If you hate moving, think a few times about whether you want to incur a second move within your first year here.
Bringing your lift? If you arrange for your lift to come to the MK, you will have to pay to move it all again to your “final” home. We decided not to – so we stored our possessions for a few months back in Toronto, then had them shipped in time to arrive around when we estimated we’d be moving into an apartment. For us, this worked out perfectly, but think about whether you prefer to pay twice or do without your STUFF for what can be a very long time.
Neighbourhood. If you choose a Merkaz Klitah, you won’t necessarily have a ton of choice about what kind of neighbourhood you’ll be living in. We were hoping to live somewhere we could fit in religiously – sadly, there isn’t a big religious community in Kiryat Yam, so we had a bit of a longer walk to shul than usual for a few months. You may not have much choice even about what city you move to, depending on availability.
Are you thinking about a Merkaz Klitah? Did you stay in one and have something you’d like to add? Share your thoughts and experiences to make this post as helpful as possible to others!
From an email to my family / friends back in Toronto, mainly unedited…
So tonight is our last night in the Merkaz Klitah (absorption centre). Here we are at the 6 month mark (nearly) and the next step of our adventure is beginning.
Yes, the apartment is tiny, but it is clean, if not spacious. Still, I made these videos after dark and it all looks a bit grimy because of the bare-bulb lighting and cardboard boxes everywhere.
This video tour is presented by our 3 wonderful tour guides, each (kind of) more gracious than the next. As always, the screaming and squabbling you have come to enjoy from our videos has not been edited out here.
Video 1
Video 2
Video 3
Remember, if you're ever bored or sleepless or thinking you'd like to follow our adventures, I'm STILL blogging at... http://aliyahland.blogspot.com
(saying goodbye to friends at the Merkaz Klitah… mischievous inquisitive little friends who asked 1000 times if we were coming back and where we were going, but still don’t quite seem to understand the concept…)
I’ve posted about them before, but okay, I’m STILL fascinated by chayalot – women soldiers, who are really more like girls because they’re just in their late teens and act more like a group of kids on a school trip than the highly-trained group of killers one normally associates with the word “army.”
I remember thinking about this when we were on our pilot trip back in February, and I took this picture of a bunch of them hanging about on a train platform, very much like they were waiting for a teacher to come and read them the schedule for the days’ activities. Only kind of like Boy Scouts, because they were all wearing uniforms. And oh, yeah, a lot of them do carry pretty scary-looking weapons.
But other than that, they’re just a bunch of kids… and it seems like one of the big army projects around here is sending kids – girls and boys – to tutor immigrant children and generally help them adapt to life in Israel. They accomplish this through the medium of Hebrew classes and various lessons in painting and crafts.
Once, when Naomi’s regular teacher (Irena, shown in the big hug above) didn’t show up, I went to the office to find out why and discovered two big army guys, sitting around a table, cutting up used soda bottles. “We’re making flowers!” they announced.
Surely this is how I would prefer to spend my army service, given the choice. It’s sort of a messianic vision a la Yeshayahu (Isaiah): nations will beat their swords into ploughshares, and soldiers will spend their days making pop-bottle flowers? But perhaps the other army guys make fun of them for getting stuck in what may be regarded as even lower than a desk job.
(That same afternoon, a couple of actual Israeli Scouts (Tzofim) came in to volunteer, just a couple of years younger than the chayalim (far older than any Scouts I’ve seen recently in Canada), and looking not at all ashamed of their slightly goofy-looking Scout uniforms, scarf and all. Not sure if there is a relationship between scouting and the army, but it seems like good preparation, if they also have to wear uniforms and make pop-bottle flowers with immigrants.)
Today, after a week of preparatory crafts, the chayalim and staff here put together a Chanukah party. One chayal brought along a recorder and sheet music, the others corralled the children and ensured that the celebratory events went along with, okay, not-quite-military precision.
I assume the soldiers do these things mainly during fairly peaceful periods, and that if need be, they are deployed to somewhere more national security oriented. I really don’t know at all how the system works, and lack the Hebrew to ask the chayalim and chayalot about it myself.
How do they pick which ones will “volunteer” to teach the immigrant kids, as opposed to, say, foot patrols in the Golan? Do they choose soldiers who have been wounded or frightened, or are otherwise unable to perform more rigourous duties? Or do they rotate through the ranks, so everybody gets a turn? Do they only pick soldiers who want to work with kids, or does everybody perhaps have to take a turn?
Although all branches of the army are easily identifiable by their distinctive shoulder patches (tag yechida / תג יחידה), which probably carry a lot of useful information for Israelis-in-the-know, I personally have no idea what any of the patches actually mean. So the red flower logo on Naomi Rivka’s chayelet could mean she is in fact serving with the “Pop-Bottle Flowers” brigade. I may never know.
But it is a very different thing, growing up with “friends” like these in the army than growing up in Canada, where (for most kids) the army is something distant, cold, and perhaps menacing.
Kids who grow up in Israeli families probably know lots of friends and relatives who are serving, but for newcomers, adults and kids, the omnipresence of the army and the prospect of serving yourself (or sending your kids to serve, if you’re a parent) can be one of the most daunting and disturbing aspects of life here.
So whether it’s done explicitly as a PR move or not, this project of sending cute, perky young soldiers to help little kids get used to life in Israel is utterly and completely brilliant. The message: Soldiers are young, fun-loving kids, just like you… just regular Israelis, just like you.
Some controversy in the online world today, in which religious Jews in charge of a well-known interfaith organization have appealed to Christians to build churches here, made me think again about these signs. I photographed them a while ago, when we were new here, but now barely notice them every day as I walk past…
These both reflect what was probably a minor campaign for this huge organization, the John Hagee Ministries, but still, some very substantial donations raised to help the Jewish Agency build this Merkaz Klitah in 2005, presumably – at the time – to house incoming Ethiopian families.
Hagee himself – a controversial figure in some circles – is known for being very pro-Israel. Now, when evangelical Christian organizations come out as “pro-Israel”, usually what that means is that they need us all to be here so that the messiah can return, which will preface untold years of suffering and varying degrees of torment (depending on the denomination) for the perfidy of not believing in him all these years.
However, unlike some of these organizations, Hagee’s organization (based in Texas) does not try to negate the significance of our eternal covenant and seems to take a softer-sell approach. On their website, they list 7 points outlining why Christians must support a Jewish Israel, including the fact that gentiles only deserve blessing if they have done something practical to bless the Jewish people. For attitudes like this, Hagee has been lauded by organizations like Bnei Brith
Still, I don’t fully trust it, especially when I find writing like this on the same website, about the same Jewish people: “Today, the Jewish people are still Christ’s family and they are still the apple of God’s eye. No, they don’t see Jesus for who Christians believe He is, but they will in the future when He comes to deliver them. Until then, we, like Esther, have a duty to speak out and defend them.” Friends, sure, but perhaps an uneasy kind of friendship, given that they believe we will ultimately be persuaded.
However, this is a complicated issue and I haven’t even scratched the surface. It’s my understanding that some of the money Nefesh b’Nefesh uses comes from Christian organizations. Not only that, there are other organizations which exist independently to assist Jews with the aliyah process, and our family personally may or may not have received aid from one or more of them.
It’s hard to shake off the creepy feeling of being nothing more than a pawn in someone else’s eschatology (end-times theology). And it feels slimy to take their money and run, taking advantage of people we ultimately believe are misguided in their heartfelt donations.
Let’s be honest: we think they’re WRONG. They think we’re WRONG. Not everything is black and white like that, but in this case, that’s how it comes out: flip of a coin.
So I guess we just have to go on believing we’re right… at the same time as they believe just as resolutely (putting their considerable financial resources where their mouth is) that they are. Fortunately, it’s not up to me: I plan to sit back and let Hashem flip the coin…. but that doesn’t mean we don’t know how it’ll turn out in the end. :-)
Again, this is not MY writing, it is the only-slightly-deranged musings of my very talented husband, Teddy (Akiva) MacLeod. If you like his writing, check out his art (sort of!).
Day Six – Fanning the Flames of Anger “ATTENTION ALL SWIMMERS!!!” said the Hebrew speaking lifeguard over his bullhorn, ”the black flags we put on the beach means it’s too dangerous to swim in the water!! Don’t any of you idiots get it?? TOO DANGEROUS!!!!! Aww, forget it…” (At least that is how I translate what they are saying) Yeah, I just read this pamphlet about swimming in Israel and how there are white, red and black flags indicating various levels of danger. All this time, the kids and I were swimming between the red and black flags because we thought that is where the lifeguards were most intently watching us. So we took the kids down to the Camp they run here in the building for all the kids. For today’s project, they were making a large six foot sailboat out of a wire frame, newspapers and paint. A little ambitious, I thought, but you know what? The kids were really into it and I started to see how this could be an ALL DAY activity that would keep the Ethiopian Jewish kids busy. (Tzivia reminded me that they are not just Ethiopian kids, they are also Jewish. Good point.) The Russian Jewish teacher started to nickname Gavriel “Gavi”, which he didn’t seem to mind and Naomi really enjoyed the focused, non-verbal group activity with the other little girls. After lunch, we took the 59 bus over to a nearby plaza where Tzivia had ordered a fancy, new fan from one of the many electrical stores there. I think the store was called “Big Electricity”. Anyway, Tzivia got all excited when she spotted an IKEA sign nearby, which we found out later, would open in another six months. We got the fan and had to leave quickly, to avoid a toy store the kids wanted to stop at. As a result, the kids also missed out on getting a treat from the store that we promised them. I took Gavi home while Tzivia and Naomi got off the bus to do a little grocery shopping. Once home I thought I would be awesome by starting to put together the fan together before my dear wife got home. I actually had most of it together when she arrived. The grand moment was when I turned on the fan and it rattled a strange thin whirring sound from the motor. “Are you telling me you didn’t test the motor before putting it all together?” I admit that I still had that North America faith in consumer products that actually work when you bring them home. Oh, I have so much to learn. I didn’t realize this, but you can’t return items to the store you bought them back in Israel. They won’t take them. You have to go to a specific company service center to get it fixed, which I have to do tomorrow. Ugh! You can say this little situation caused some testiness this afternoon! At six-thirty, I took the kids for our ritual, before supper swim, this time staying on the safe side of the red flags. The kids had asked their mother if I would buy them a Popsicle after swimming and I was surprised that she agreed. (They missed out on a treat at the plaza…) So after a bouncy swim, (Were the waves a little higher tonight or am I now paranoid?), we stopped at the beach bar where they serve food, booze and a crazy array of Nestle popsicles and ice-cream bars. The kids picked a Popsicle that comes with a toy inside and we raced home for supper, followed by a Popsicle dessert. And now I sit here waiting for the kids to stop whispering in their bedroom and go to sleep.
Again, this is not MY writing, it is the only-slightly-deranged musings of my very talented husband, Teddy (Akiva) MacLeod. If you like his writing, check out his art (sort of!).
Day Five (Sunday) Woke up again to the comforting Hebrew words of the lifeguard on his bull-horn this morning. “Hey, you MORONS, don’t swim out so far!! Don’t you know there are sharks in the area?” Went downstairs with the kiddies and were told to come back at 11:00 for a big “clown” show that they were putting on for all the kids in the building. So we came back at the designated time as the show was beginning. The show, which consisted of the typical speaker setup that all Israeli shows have, (playing upbeat, yet mournful music), a laser light machine, a bubble machine, a small stage decorated with a playful pirate theme and the “clown”. The clown being a guy in a sweaty t-shirt and a silver hat. The clown did a few kid-friendly tricks such as setting a book on fire and making things with balloons, among others, a toilet seat that he hung around a kid’s head. Then he really put the kids through their paces with tug of war games and potato sack races, all within the fifteen foot confines of the stage. My kids sat watching, probably in horror, at all this culture shock. At the end they had the dancing part of the show. Imagine a room full of about 30 Ethiopian kids dancing first to the Macerena, followed by the embarrassing Gangnam-style, with a few stern Russian teachers trying to encourage my two little white-bread, home-schooled children into participating. Forget it! Later on in the day, we went to the beach before supper. I was hoping to tire them out, so the bedtime routine would be easier, which it never is. It usually ends with GZ shouting that he “ISN’T TIRED!”, followed by a little bit of bothering of Naomi, before he finally settles down.
(the picture isn’t Ted’s, it’s mine, and shows Naomi Rivka’s school, which I found on my way home from the optometrist, where I went to fix Gavriel Zev’s broken glasses – which they did for free, and even complimented me on my good Hebrew!!! Note to self: “ofen” means nosepiece. I think.)
No, we’re still coming! Or going (depending on where you are and how you look at it). But it looks like we may have a slightly different (short-term) destination.
Nefesh b’Nefesh have expanded the “Go North” region to include Haifa and its “krayot” – a bunch of suburbs that are all called “Kiryat” Something (= Something-town).
And although we were planning to go straight to the Merkaz Klitah (absorption centre) in Karmiel, at the last minute, we were offered a place in the Merkaz Klitah in Kiryat Yam, one of these krayot. And while the Karmiel MK offered us only a couple of weeks – eek! during which time we’d have to scramble to find a home – the one in Kiryat Yam has said we could stay longer; from 2 to 5 months.
Actually, to be very honest, these events happened in the reverse order: we were offered the place in Kiryat Yam, we considered it (and checked with Nefesh b’Nefesh to be sure!) and ultimately said no because it wasn’t in the Go North region. Then I got an email saying they had expanded the Go North region, so I emailed the Jewish Agency back saying, “yes, please!” to Kiryat Yam.
Downsides:
It’s not Karmiel, and it’s not a town we would probably consider living in.
No religious schools nearby – the kids will have to travel daily to Kiryat Shmuel, another of the krayot, about 20-30 minutes’ walk away.
Not our ultimate destination – this will probably mean transferring schools mid-year.
Upsides:
Ulpan onsite – however, they only offer level alef (the first level), so I may have to travel to another ulpan, unless I am also at the alef level, which may indeed be the case. I’m not saying my Hebrew is so great, just that it’s better than Ted’s, so if he’s alef… well, maybe I’m alef-and-a-half.
Other resources onsite - and hopefully, assistance with some of the mundanities of day-to-day life
Reduced rent – the downside of this is losing part of the first-year rent subsidy that is part of your sal haklitah (immigrant benefits)
Meeting other immigrants – the downside of this is that, from what I understand, most of the olim here are from Ethiopia, which isn’t a downside in and of itself, simply that they will have had a very different experience from ours.
The train! Is nearby! I love this one. Easy to get to Yerushalayim and other parts of the country, easy for Elisheva and others to find us.
The city! Is nearby! I love this, too. I am a city girl, through and through, and I’ve been sad about leaving big city life behind. Haifa isn’t Toronto, and Kiryat Yam isn’t Haifa, but it’s a whole lot more exiting than most of the small towns in Northern Israel. Not saying I don’t still want to end up there, but there it is... while we’re getting our sea legs, it may be reassuring.
Employment - shamefully, I forgot to mention this when I first posted last night. Parnassah (earning a living) is important. No matter where we end up living in the north, Haifa is a centre of employment and it will be handy to be there for a number of reasons.
(downtown Haifa at night)
Here’s a view of the Merkaz Klitah from a distance:
It’s right on the Mediterranean, which sounds pretty deluxe to my Canadian ears, but I’ve heard that Kiryat Yam is the most run-down of the krayot. Also, nothing about life in a merkaz klitah is “deluxe” anything.
And finally, “situated right on the Mediterranean” means that the air will contain a shockingly high percentage of that healthful Mediterranean water – exactly the kind of humidity I had hoped to avoid. (Right now, the temperatures are in the high 20s, with a humidity around 60-some-odd percent.)
Still – we think and hope and pray that it will be a good thing.
The view next door (beyond the palm trees is the Mediterranean):
Meanwhile, looking up the Merkaz Klitah in Google StreetView, I happened to notice a little drama playing out in front of the main gate…
These people are getting out of some sort of car with a shopping cart full of suitcases – all their earthly possessions, or at least, whatever didn’t fit into their lift.
Cruising slowly past on the Google camera-car…
I don’t know who these people are, and this little drama played itself out, according to Google, in October 2011. I hope by now he/she/they have found a happy “forever home” in the holy land.
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