During my college years in the late 1950s, I read with delight, Leo Rosten’s The Education of Hyman Kaplan where the author describes with humor and poignancy the struggles of new immigrants learning English in an Americanization class. In the book, class members told about their experiences grappling with this strange America and its alien language; how they mangled English and misconstrued, often with hilarious results, what was being said to them.
Hyman Kaplan’s stories resonated with me because I grew up with parents and relatives who could have been in his class. Little did I know that several years later I would attend a language program (ulpan) in Israel and would, like Hyman Kaplan and his classmates, struggle to master a new language, “breaking my teeth” and exposing my
linguistic limitations in the process.
Following graduate school my husband Julius (called Julie) and I decided to work overseas for a year or two, describing it as our personal Peace Corps; a program introduced by President Kennedy in 1961 to engage young Americans in international development assistance. With an M.I.T degree in Regional and Urban Planning, Julie was easily able to line up a job in Israel.
Soon after arriving Julie joined two former classmates who worked as consultants with the Ministry of Labor on new town development. Those were the years of heavy immigration to Israel, and immigrants were provided housing in new towns by the government as part of their resettlement. New town settlement helped populate barren land, reduced over-crowding in cities and improved border security since most of the towns were located in the country’s periphery. Julie didn’t need to speak Hebrew, as his colleagues and the people in the Ministry, with whom he worked spoke English.
I decided to improve my spoken Hebrew, anticipating that I could eventually find work as well. Having studied Hebrew as a foreign language in both high school and college, my passive vocabulary and knowledge of the structure of the language were good, but I could barely put a sentence together.
Our first home in Israel was Beit Brodetsky, a residential absorption center for Western “immigrants” located in Ramat Aviv, a small garden city outside Tel Aviv. There I learned about a government-sponsored Hebrew language program (ulpan) in Tel Aviv, where I promptly registered. The goals were to help new immigrants gain mastery of Hebrew and become proficient in speaking, using a vocabulary of 1000 every-day words, considered sufficient to manage their daily lives
Classes were held on the second floor of a four -story office building on Jabotinsky Street in an older section of Tel Aviv. The entire floor was devoted to ulpan classes and administrative offices and because I had studied Hebrew I was placed in the Intermediate class.
Bus #25 ran from the stop outside Beit Brodetsky to downtown Tel Aviv, letting me off just three blocks from the program. The Egged buses, run by the Israeli bus cooperative were basic; the seats were small, barely cushioned and lumpy; covered in a blue vinyl with cracks from use and age. Passengers needed to hold the metal handle- bars in front of the seats as the macho Egged drivers took sharp turns around the corners. I didn’t know it then but riding Bus #25 six days a week for five months became just as important to learning Hebrew and acclimating to Israel as the language program itself.
The bus riders represented polyglot Israel and the languages spoken sounded like a veritable Tower of Babel. Since the route began in Ramat Aviv, a solid middle class suburb, they were mainly Ashkenazi: from Poland, Bulgaria, Hungary, Romania and Russia with a few native-born Israelis (sabras)as well. The riders dressed casually: the women in light-weight cotton dresses or blouses and skirts; the men in brown khaki shorts . Many wore sandals.
My class ran from 8 am to 12 noon so I took the same #25 bus, with the same bus driver and the same people every day. This was a community of riders, and at first I was observed. But when I was seen as a “regular”, the riders crowded me. “What’s your name?” “Where do you live?” “Where do you go everyday?” “Are you married?” “What does your husband do, and how much does he earn?” No one was bashful, no question too personal. Finally, a bold inquisitor asked what everyone really wanted to know, “Why are you here and are you planning to stay?” I knew that question would eventually be asked. Israelis asked it of every American. On the one hand, Israelis were curious to know why anyone would give up a comfortable life in America to live in a struggling, 13 year old poor country. On the other hand, they sought validation for the Zionist dream of building a Jewish homeland. Of course, they all vociferously expressed their opinions when I replied,” I am here temporarily.”
The 30- minute ride on the crowded vehicle was never boring. The riders discussed politics, commented on the news from the bus radio, offered opinions about what a rider should do about an errant child or husband, suggested the best treatment for the illness of the day, and even gave advice to the experienced bus driver when we came to a traffic jam or road detour; “Go right!” “Go left!” ” Don’t just stand there!” My daily bus ride was my introduction to Israelis, life in Israel, and every-day Hebrew.
When I returned to Ramat Aviv, two years ago, the town was no longer recognizable, having been transformed to an upscale community of high rises, museums, a university and a mall with international shops. Many of the women were coiffed and stylishly dressed. I was stunned and disoriented when I couldn’t find the street I had lived on. Nevertheless, I was thrilled to see bus #25 still plying its route.
Walking the three blocks after I left the bus, I passed small shops selling books, newspapers, school supplies, underwear and work clothing, drinks, fruits and vegetables, as well as bakeries and small cafes. Israelis start work early to avoid the heat, so the streets bustled with people on their way to work, the men carrying the ubiquitous scruffy brown leather briefcases that made them seem important. Julie and I speculated that they were probably carrying their lunch. On my way home, I stopped for the refreshing and nutritious carrot juice from an open store window as I watched the owner grind the carrots into juice. Many years passed before I saw carrot juice on the shelves of Trader Joe’s.
My 8 ulpan classmates came from eight different countries: Bulgaria, Tunisia, Mexico, Russia, Romania, Argentina, Belgium and the U.S. Four languages were spoken: English, French, Spanish and Russian, but Hebrew was our only common language. Thus learning Hebrew through total immersion was our only option, and Geveret (Mrs) Nadel, our teacher made it work.
Geveret Nadel was a remarkable woman from a remarkable time in Israel’s history. In her early 60s, she wore what seemed like a daily uniform of a white or blue plain blouse and either a blue, black, or brown skirt, with a cardigan in a matching color. Her outfits signaled practicality and indifference to fashion. Her grey hair was short and straight and set off her olive complexion; her body lean and her hands calloused. A younger version of her could have been on the iconic poster of a pioneer draining the Hula swamps.
She immigrated in 1915, part of a wave from Russia and Poland known as the second aliyah, (literally, “going up to Israel”). It was known as the “forefathers” immigration for it shaped the country politically, socially and economically; settled the land and brought the Jewish state into being. Geveret Nadel was tough, practical, confident, irreverent, and a marvelous story-teller. Her tales were about her life: growing up in Russia, working on a collective farm in Israel, fighting in the Israel War for Independence, coming to live in Tel Aviv, and becoming a Hebrew teacher.
In addition to reading and discussing a weekly newspaper published in easy Hebrew and studying grammar, students were called on to share their life stories, allowing them to practice speaking while creating a bond among us. The stories were unforgettable - a history of the Jewish people in microcosm.
Rachela, from Russia, survived World War II because her family left for Siberia as the Germans invaded. When they returned after the war, however, they were suspected of being German collaborators. After all, how else could they have survived the war, thought the communist bureaucrats. Rachela was a tall, lean woman with a deeply lined face, making it hard to tell her age. She had a good Hebrew vocabulary and spoke Hebrew easily; but we couldn’t understand her because she accented the words as if she were speaking Yiddish. When she spoke, we looked at each other and tried to stifle our giggles; her vocabulary was rich but her pronunciations unrecognizable.
Sophia, a dark- haired rather plump young woman, who grew up in Bulgaria, shared her story of feeling lucky. The Bulgarian Jewish population was one of the few European Jewish communities saved from deportation during World War II, but barely. Sophia’s family had been rounded-up and was waiting at the deportation point, when the Bulgarian King canceled the order. The close call experienced by the community which had lived in Bulgaria more than 400 years, (since the expulsion from Spain), shook their sense of security. Two-thirds of Bulgaria’s Jews left for Israel in the 1950s.
Stephan, a quiet but steely man in his thirties from Romania, also expressed his good fortune to be in Israel. Sandy-haired and pale, he wore rimless glasses on his straight nose and pale face. He had emigrated from Romania aided by a head-tax paid by the Israeli government for each Jew permitted to leave. Trained as an engineer, Stephan was realistic about his immediate employment prospects. He said, that he told his wife, ” I am ready to work at any job I can find, even collecting garbage.” He had studied Hebrew secretly in anticipation of his emigration and was the first to leave our program to take a job as an engineer.
Ricardo’s family emigrated from Germany to Argentina after Kristallnacht, correctly reading the signs that Germany was no longer safe for Jews. The family prospered in Argentina, but their long-term plan was to resettle in Israel. Ricardo was raised with a strong Jewish identity. He was sent to Jewish schools and Zionist camps and was the first member of his family to move to Israel upon completion of his accounting degree. In a short period of time, Ricardo began dressing in khaki shorts and white open-necked short sleeve shirts looking like a kibbutz member, suggesting he was eager to blend in. His parents planned to follow in the next couple of years.
Although Clara was originally from Tunisia, she left for Paris to complete her education in the mid 50s. She dressed carefully and her hair was always neatly styled. The first time she spoke in class, I expected to hear the harsh guttural Arab accent I associated with Jews from Arab countries. However, coming from the Tunisian upper middle merchant class that spoke French as their first language, her Hebrew was more mellifluous. Her family had lived in Tunisia for several generations and ran a successful jewelry business in Tunis. Following the creation of the State of Israel, the family’s situation became more difficult and her parents urged their children to study and settle abroad. Clara left Paris to join her family in Israel in 1960 when they left Tunisia.
Becoming competent in Hebrew was for me a step- by- step process involving lots of practice and the willingness to speak ” Rak Ivrit” (only Hebrew) as the name of a popular song told us. I was frustrated because my Hebrew was simple, while my English was rich and expressive. In addition, a large portion of Tel Avivians understood English- so I was very tempted to speak in my mother tongue. I had to overcome my inhibitions to ask directions, the cost of an item, or where I could change money; and I had to believe that I would understand their responses. Worst of all, when I finally felt sufficiently courageous, my strongly accented and halting Hebrew often elicited a response in English.
Only when Israelis crashed queues, a frequent occurrence, did I lose my inhibitions. That was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and I was the bull. Often it was done unthinkingly, without a “pardon,” “excuse me” “or”may I”, consciously ignoring the people who came earlier and who were standing in front of them. Sometimes there were no lines, just a crowd of people jockeying to get to the front. One day in the Ramat Aviv Post Office, I was so annoyed at the crowd’s behavior that I told them in Hebrew in a voice loud enough to be heard over the din, ” This is crazy! You need to make a line and wait your turn”. Voila….. lines were formed. The clerks were amazed, and so was I.
On another occasion, I was literally applauded by a bus full of people for calling out a young Israeli woman who jumped the line, boarding the bus first. Since it was a holiday, a lot of people were traveling and the lines for connections were long. Julie and I stood on the line at least 40 minutes when a young woman walked to the front, and jumped on first just as the bus opened its doors. She was not handicapped or old, just thoughtless or self-entitled. I boarded the bus and saw her sitting in the front seat. That’s when the red flag waved. I stopped, faced her and in a loud enough voice to be heard in the back said in Hebrew, “Many of us have been standing in line for almost an hour. Why do you think you don’t need to do that? Are you better than us?” Again, I was fueled by indignation, and although I may have violated rules of gender and tense, the riders understood me. When the bus made its next stop and an older woman boarded, this young woman rose and gave the older woman her seat. Wow, I thought, not only can I make myself understood in Hebrew, but I can make someone feel guilty as well.
My progress learning Hebrew was two steps forward and one step back. Slight and inadvertent switches in consonants could prove embarrassing …maybe even fatal. One day, I strode into the local fruit market and pointing, confidently, asked for a kilo of grapes, using just a few of my 1000 words to elegantly express my wishes. The puzzled look on the shopkeeper’s face, followed by a guffaw that he desperately tried to stifle, told me that my growing vocabulary had gone awry. Simply switching the position of one consonant from anavim to avanim mysteriously turned a kilo of grapes into stones.
Conceptual errors, like the days of the week, also tripped me up because my brain thought in English while my tongue spoke Hebrew. For example, in much of the world, Sunday is the seventh day of the week, while in Israel, Saturday, the Sabbath is the seventh. The Bible states it clearly, ” And on the 7th day God rested”. The world, however, does not agree about which day that was.
Complicating things further, the days of the week in Hebrew are known as:
Sunday, first day (Yom Rishon),
Monday, second day (Yom Sheni),
Tuesday, third day, (Yom Shlishi), and so on.
To get the days right, I needed to think and count in Hebrew; not think in English and translate to Hebrew. So I messed up when I made a dentist appointment for Yom Revi’i, (fourth day), thinking that was Thursday (the fourth day for me) but not in Israel. I laugh when I think of my explanation for failing to show up on Wednesday; it could have been from a comedian’s routine of “who’s on first and what’s on second.”
Although determined to become conversant in Hebrew, I couldn’t always rely on the local population to help. Many were themselves new immigrants improvising with the language in a Wild West, everything-goes manner- like the time I asked the Hebrew name of a round yellow fruit I held and was ready to buy. The vendor looked me straight in the eye and without hesitation said “grepefrut”, in accented English. Then there was time, my husband and I hitchhiked on the back of a truck, which broke down shortly after we climbed aboard: the problem a broken “frontbeckaxle”.
After five months of intensive study, I felt ready to start a job. Through my husband’s contacts, I learned about a pilot program that Amidar, the National Housing Agency was implementing to improve immigrant absorption. I was hired as a community organizer, along with nine others, to work in new towns that had large Amidar housing developments.
The housing, slabs of four story white concrete buildings went up quickly. Immigrants were moved in as soon as the units were livable - services and amenities came later.
I was assigned to two towns–Yavne and Kiryat Malachi – both of which had high concentrations of immigrants from Morocco. They came mainly from small towns and rural areas including the Atlas Mountains where living conditions were quite primitive. The new “development” towns, where they were settled were isolated, surrounded by collective farms and open fields, and about an hour’s ride from Tel Aviv.
In each town I connected first with the local Amidar manager for his assessment of the community and its needs. Amidar’s managers complained about how poorly the tenants were caring for the property: trash in the front yards, stuffed up toilets, overflowing sinks, and dirty hallways. Some even kept chickens in their apartments that crowed when I knocked on the door. The managers’ complaints were legitimate- these were some of the problems this new program was meant to address.
The new immigrants expressed their complaints as well: living in the middle of nowhere, the separation of extended families, the distance from their work sites, and their jobs in agriculture, which was viewed as “Arab” work, demeaning and beneath their status.
Amidar was seen as both landlord and surrogate for the government, and initially we ( as Amidar employees) were suspect too. So my co-workers and I first had to win the trust of the residents with whom we worked.
Trust was built slowly. We made social visits, drank lots of tea, listened empathically, and sought needs we could address successfully. I bonded first with the women who were home during the day. Then I was introduced to a few of the husbands who were grateful for the friendship I offered their wives. Gradually a wary trust emerged. It helped that I was American. They felt special that someone from America came to work with them. Most interesting of all was that my Hebrew more than sufficed as I was working with new immigrants who were also struggling to speak this new language.
My accomplishments were modest. With the older kids, I organized some “clean-up” days, in exchange for soccer balls. Some women planted a vegetable garden with seeds that Amidar provided, and a few men learned basic household repairs. It took a few months for the residents to recognize they could productively engage with Amidar, and organize to seek remedies for more significant problems.
We had been in Israel close to 18 months and I was beginning to feel connected to my work and the country. My husband, however, faced a decision-point in his job, and we needed to assess whether to stay longer or leave. I could have remained. My work was challenging and satisfying, and I could see progress. I was feeling more secure speaking Hebrew and we had made a lot of interesting friends from different aspects of Israeli life. The personal, familial and professional equation for my husband, however, was different, and reluctantly we agreed that we would leave.
More than fifty years later, I look back on my 18 months in Israel as one of the richest periods of my life where I felt part of a new and struggling endeavor. A few years after returning, I successfully captured my Amidar work experiences in an article published in the “Journal of Housing”. I felt proud to share the Amidar experiment with a larger audience, confirming for me that this new country was blazing paths in immigrant absorption and social integration.