By Orit
May 11, 2005
Israel is celebrating its 57th year. I've taken a part in almost seven of those years. This year, I don't think I'm celebrating.
Deep down I love my country, my homeland, but the fact of the matter is: I'm worn out.
Ever since Passover, the holiday of liberation, I've been feeling battered and chained. I admit the State of Israel is not to be blamed for all my woes, and I may just be scrambling for a scapegoat. Or perhaps my momentary recrimination of Israel is a symptom of my idealism: I'd like to think that I suffer for my country, that I'm a martyr.
Allow me to elaborate on my patriotic struggles.
First, there's my cheap, greedy ex-landlord, a 40-something year old man who would be kinda cute if he weren't such an a-hole (and wise ol' me told this to him to his face). A few months ago, after four months of living in my studio apartment, he informed me that he was kicking me out so that he could remodel the building. I had two months to vacate the pad, which I had worked hard to transform into a homey refuge. A day before the planned move, after finally finding a decent alternative, he called me a "$&%@in' bitch" for calling him a "$&%@n' a-hole." He never returned my security deposit or the balance of my rent. We're now corresponding via fax, and I may be facing my first Israeli lawsuit.
Then, my purse was stolen during Passover. I left it in my friend's trunk in south Tel Aviv, and I know it wasn't the smartest thing to do, but the car had an alarm and I was going to return in about an hour. When I did, I found that my purse, which included my wallet, car/house keys, cell-phone, id, and car registration/insurance -- basically my entire logistical world -- was gone. Okay, so I learned my lesson.
I took a cab home at 2:30 am, but my new roommate was out for the weekend. All my phone numbers were in my stolen phone, and I had no one to call, except my neighbor, who I had just started "dating," i.e. making out with. Fortunately -- or unfortunately -- his number was written on a piece of paper in my pocket. He said he'd be home right away, and I had a glimmer of optimism that maybe my stolen purse was meant to bring us closer together.
"I'm going to play Atari," he said, as I slumped on the couch, frustrated. Then he yelled at me for accidentally spilling water on his love seat, a clear sign that I was gonna get no love. At least he let me call my parents long-distance, who have incredibly pulled through for me in this hour of need, but when I shared with him my upset, hungry for sympathy, he coldly told me to "put some mud on it."
I know I could use yet another lesson in taking it slow with men, especially insensitive and emotionally unavailable brutes, but isn't one major lesson enough for one night?
For the passed few weeks I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut-off trying to recover everything -- my things, my approach to romance, my sanity. I've been changing my locks, facing sour-faced bank clerks, filing a report with the apathetic police, listening to countless automated phone operators, installing a new alarm on my car, and reading Women Who Love Too Much. I thought that the new state-of-the-art government complex in Tel Aviv would mean shorter lines at that Ministry of Interior; I waited two hours to get my new ID card (at least I had some reading materials). I've been reminded every single day that Israel is still on the bottom rung when it comes to customer service.
Tomorrow will be Yom Ha'atzmaut. Everyone in the country will be celebrating -- well almost everyone. An Israeli woman waiting in line with me at the Ministry of Interior said she's also tired. She's underpaid, overworked, and fed-up with having to put up with the stinginess, the apathy, and lack of customer service common in Israel, especially Tel Aviv. She's not excited about Israel's birthday.
On top of my ideological battle with the holiday, I have the added burden of figuring out how I'm going to spend the day. I don't have parents nearby with whom I could enjoy the traditional barbecue, nor do I have a boyfriend with whom to party. I'll have to go through the phone numbers in a phone that no longer exists to build some sort of social outing for the day.
But earlier today I passed by a well-attended memorial service in Tel Aviv for the fallen soldiers, and I remembered that Yom Ha'atzmaut is not the only Israeli holiday this week. People make such a fuss about Yom Ha'atzmaut without remembering that Yom Hazikaron, Memorial Day, falls the day before the triumphant holiday to remind us that without the courage of our brave soldiers Israel wouldn't be here today. They and their families lost a lot more than I ever did. To reach independence, sometimes we need to experience pain.
It reminded me what I already know: In the grand scheme of things, my stolen purse, my stolen kisses, my stolen rent money are not tragic losses. Hopefully they are the extent of the losses I will face as I build my life here -- as I reach my own peaceful independence, where I am strong, self-sufficient, and eager to celebrate Independence Day as a great national -- and personal -- triumph.
Views expressed by the author do not
necessarily reflect those of israelinsider.
 
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