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Alison Stern Golub was born and grew up in Seattle, Washington and is a graduate of Brown University. She made aliya to Jerusalem in 2003. More information about her adventures in Israel can be found on her .
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By Alison Stern Golub
May 9, 2004
There is a new television show here, on the comedy network, that has begun to accumulate a significant viewership. It is called, "M.K. 22," the name of a fictional army unit, and, as far as I know, it is the first "cartoon for adults" - Israel's answer to "Southpark." Indeed, similar to "Southpark," this show appears to have no limits in the areas of profanity, racism, and inappropriateness, and my Israeli friends find it endlessly hilarious.
I, on the other hand, can barely catch a word of the dialogue, and have no idea what is going on most of the time. I have seen the commercials for it hundreds of times now, and each time I find myself filled with an intense feeling of longing. I feel painfully inadequate whenever I try to understand this show, and I would give anything to comprehend the cultural framework from which it comes.
The commercial states, in a knowing tone, "It's the true story of all of us - the show that will do to the army what the army did to us."
This continually strikes me as a distinct and purposeful message. There is no more stark contrast among the citizens of Israel than the one between those who will do, are doing, or have done army service - and those who have not and will never serve this country. It is the difference between Israeli Jews and Israeli Arabs; between non-religious or conservative and ultra-religious or Orthodox; between "true" citizens and those of us who, like me, decided to join the country a bit late in the game.
I have an Israeli identity card, and I have an Israeli passport, and I am prouder of nothing more than of that indelible "Israeli" stamped in the "citizenship" spot. But I am not, and I will never be, truly Israeli. And I am never more conscious of this than when I am trying desperately to understand a joke, or a slang expression, or a show such as "M.K. 22," while all my Israeli friends are laughing knowingly around me.
I've seen this phenomenon in many of my oleh friends - this distinct sense of being Israeli but never really being Israeli. I have three female friends here who emigrated from America decades ago, each one married to a native Israeli, each with kids my age. Each has had her own issues and hardships with her adjustment here, but they all consider themselves Israeli. Sometimes I wonder, however, how the still-ever-present clash between their American upbringing and their Israeli identity really plays out for them.
I am very close with one of these women, and I frequently think of her as my mentor in the dimension of klita, or absorption into Israeli society. Her Hebrew is absolutely fluent, and she bounces back and forth between English and Hebrew within a given sentence with an unawareness that only comes with complete mastery of the languages.
Every once in a while, however, I see a blank stare on her face when her sons tell an "Israeli" joke, or an uncertainty when her husband is discussing the historical root of a certain Hebrew word. I wonder, how must it be for her to encounter things like this that she doesn't understand, even after twenty years in the country? One of the other women told me that throughout her children's schooling, they always made sure to ask her husband to write the notes to their teachers or to sign permission slips, because they were always embarrassed of her childlike Hebrew handwriting and spelling mistakes.
And then there's this issue of the army. How can any American ever understand what Israeli army service is like? And how can anyone hope to understand Israeli society without having been a part of such a huge facet of it? Having a civilian army means that a huge percentage of the society has been a part of protecting, serving, and paying loyalties (whether he or she chooses to or not) to his or her country. To not be a part of this is to be lacking something powerful and - whether Israelis will admit it or not - unifying.
God willing, my children will serve in the Israeli army. And I will forever be an outsider to their experiences, and to the lessons they will learn about themselves and about their society.
I will always be standing outside, desperately rubbing the fog of my breath off the windows to see more. I will never know what it is like to be part of a unit, to rely on my peers with my life, and to guard my country knowing it may be at the expense of my life.
I will never test the utter limits of my endurance, both physically and emotionally, in that manner. And I will never know the fear, and the sense of accomplishment, and the pain that comes with these army experiences that are so familiar to everyone else around me. My children, and my grandchildren, will be cultural strangers to me in many ways. There will come a day, hopefully soon, that I will be able to translate every word of "M.K. 22." But I know that I will never truly understand it.
Views expressed by the author do not
necessarily reflect those of israelinsider.
 
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