It's been an abnormally long time since I've written (though I suppose when it's only the seventh post ever, there isn't really a "normal" anyway), but I've been mulling around lots of thoughts.
The latest sort of clarified itself this afternoon, when some tourists were clearly lost, and I offered to help them, both a) wanting to be nice and b) hearing Canadian accents (my (other) people!). They asked what I was doing here, and I explained, briefly. Then, of course, they asked how the aliyah process has been.
I answered, at least somewhat truthfully, "some days are better than others," and sort of moved on to the next topic--telling them where to go. It was clear that I didn't tell them what they wanted to hear: that life after aliyah is one falafel eating hora after the next, perhaps followed by a sunset stroll on the beach.
The whole exchange, however, reminded me of what I've been thinking they don't tell you about aliyah: this is HARD.
Much of the time when I'm talking to friends and family in the States or Canada, I gloss over what's hard about being here. When I'm talking to Israelis, I often do, too. It would be hard for people who've never moved country/culture to understand the challenges.
Interestingly enough, other new olim get it--instantly--and often discuss the difficulties of adjusting to life here.
And it's everything: let's take learning a new language, for instance. It's not just about finding a job, or making friends; it's also about the grocery store, understanding the cheeses here (there's no "reduced fat colby jack" in Israel), or at the bank, understanding the jibberish which I can barely manage in English. It's about not wanting your boyfriend's delightful friends to have to speak in a second language just for you, or wanting to understand their conversation, even if you're not privy to years of inside jokes. It's about every single time you go to a cafe and get a menu. In short, it's about everything.
At the risk of sounding truly banal, aliyah is also hard because of what you are losing: I gave up being close to the world's best friends (definitively) and the greatest parents ever (also not up for debate) in favor of a place where I have few people to fall back on, and where all the medicine is in a different language when all I want is some FREAKING PEPTO-BISMOL. It's hard to leave all that's familiar, and it's hard to get used to things where everything is new, and some days, everything feels like a challenge.
Of course, there are some serious silver linings. The people you can lean on are extraordinary, like my host family who took in a stranger four years ago, and now considers me their fourth child, or my boyfriend's family, who automatically set a place for me at shabbat dinner. There's my ulpan family, all undergoing the same challenges I am and the olim I know who are not so new, and have successfully integrated.
And of course, there is the pride of living in the place in which you were meant to live. This is not a small thing. Nor is it a small thing when you can make your way through an automated phone menu in Hebrew, or read apartment listings in Hebrew.
But, truth be told, when you're at the bank trying to do something and you can't remember the right word and you're sweating and it's July, and the woman behind you is screaming at you to hurry up, it's hard to be an idealist.
So the moral of this story is what no one will tell you about making aliyah: it's not all welcome ceremonies or new immigrant discounts. It's hard, getting-used-to-a-new-place work, day in and day out.
I promise a more uplifting post soon, about some of the wonderful things about living here--but I want to be honest, too.
