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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
April 10, 2005
People are always shocked to find out that I made aliyah without family here in Israel. I am always asked, with incredulity, how I manage by myself and when my parents will be coming to join me here.
Up until recently I was rarely bothered by these questions, usually responding that my family in Seattle simply doesn't feel the same way about Israel and isn't able to make such a huge trip to visit me here. I contented myself with the dumbfounded looks I always receive by telling myself that Israelis have a different conception of the meaning and behavioral norms of family, and that this is just another of those glorious little cultural differences.
But lately it's been getting to me. I find that in nearly every phone conversation with my mother over the past month, I cannot help but mention how much I want her to come visit me. We talk, argue, debate -- even yell -- endlessly about the reasons for her reluctance: it's too far, too much money, too scary, too dangerous, too unknown. I try to understand, to use the empathy skills I have learned in my psychology studies, but it's so difficult and so painful.
Then, last week, I had the same conversation, but for the first time with my brother. I had never expected him to come here, for all the same reasons. But how he articulated his own excuses really hit me. "Alison," he explained, "you have to understand that a trip like this is simply beyond my comfort zone. Places like Israel, and Iraq -- they're just too scary."
Yes, you heard right, my friends. "Israel and Iraq," in the same sentence! I was shocked. I simply cannot believe how my family, after hearing me wax poetic about Israel, about how happy I am, about how much my life has changed for the better in this past year, even after reading these articles every two weeks, could still believe that Israel is comparable to a less-than-developing country surging with militants and rebels, in full-on war times, no less!
There are times on the phone with my family when I am certain that they are picturing me living in a tent in the middle of the desert with my camel tethered to the front flap. Whenever I happen to mention that it is raining, whoever I am talking to at the time invariably exclaims, "Really!? It rains there?"
None of my friends here understand how my family can be so far removed from Israel, in every way. Every other olah chadasha (new immigrant) that I know has had at least two family members visit them within a year of making aliyah. Although I feel painfully alone in this regard, the fact that my family can still believe what they believe even with an olah chadasha in their midst, speaks fairly loudly about the terrible P.R. coming out of this country. My protestations as to the safety and relative peace here just can't seem to combat the constant news footage of Qassam rocket shelling, military incursions into the territories, and lockdowns at the checkpoints.
And so I remain a foreigner in my own family. They don't understand me, and I can't seem to find a way to bridge the gap. I wish my words were enough, but their fear and lack of information are obstacles too large to overcome and I honestly can't blame them. I always knew that I was different, that this country spoke to me in a way that very few people can truly comprehend. But this is the first time that I have been faced with my family's profound inability, or lack of willingness, or perhaps lack of desire, to open a window into my world here.
A couple of weeks ago I received an email from a woman introducing herself as a distant cousin on my mother's side. I immediately called her number, fingers shaking with emotions I didn't know I was capable of having. She told me she made aliyah the year I was born, and has loved every minute of it since. I was filled with a sense of wonder and pure joy, and not a small amount of incredulity that there was someone out there in my gene pool who felt the same way I do. No matter how distant, to find out that even a drop of Zionism exists in my family tree was an incredibly powerful thing. No longer do I need to feel deviant, or outcast, or different, or alone. There is someone out there with parts of my blood running through her, who understands how I feel about this land. And she can drive over to visit anytime.
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