By Kirstyn Brendlen
STAFF WRITER
Gate 38 to Tel Aviv at Newark Liberty Airport has a particleboard wall around it.
It’s the first time I’ve ever flown by myself, and I’m standing on the wrong side of the wall. A taped-up paper sign instructs me to go around, where I have to show my boarding pass and passport, then hand over my backpack so I can be more effectively metal-wanded. The gate is mostly empty – probably because you’re not allowed to leave once you’re in, and most of the passengers don’t seem nervous enough to sit and wait for two hours before boarding starts.
We’re a few minutes from departure when the pre-flight announcements come on – first in English, then, after a moment, in Hebrew. The man next to me turns to his wife. “That’s our language, huh? That’s what they speak at home.” She rolls her eyes and he says, “I’m sorry, I’m so excited. I’ve waited a long time for this.” Then, despite the fact that we’re still sitting on the tarmac in New Jersey, he clicks on the flight map and uses it to set his watch to the local time in Israel – 11:11 p.m. We won’t be there for nearly 12 hours.
Ben-Gurion airport in Tel Aviv is one of the most secure commercial airports in the world, starting immediately when you get in. Passport control wants to know why I’m here – to take Arabic at the University of Haifa – why I’m taking Arabic, why I chose Haifa and do I have my acceptance letter, please?
Israel’s tenuous relationships with the Arab world mean they don’t stamp your passport when you enter the country. At least two countries, Syria and Lebanon, won’t let you cross their borders with Israeli stamps in your passport, and you’d probably have a hard time entering other Arab countries. Instead, I’m handed a business-card sized blue visa, which I keep in my wallet and check compulsively two or three times a day for the next month.
The car that picks me up has New Jersey plates, because there’s no escape from New Jersey, but that’s about the end of what’s familiar. On the way out of the airport I catch a glimpse of Israel’s famous soldiers, young men and women serving their mandatory two or three-year conscriptions. They’re everywhere, and they have their semi-automatic rifles slung over their shoulders whether they’re in or out of uniform. I never get used to them. During our last week, one of the boys jumps after he steps on my foot while we wait in line for lunch. The gun swings and I don’t breathe for about 10 seconds.
We spend the first week on campus and in Haifa. I spend a lot of time saying “I’m sorry, I don’t understand Hebrew,” googling “How Much Do You Tip in Israel?” and feeling very American. The first time I take the bus back to campus alone, I get on the wrong bus and end up 12 miles past campus at a bus stop along a semi-deserted highway.
There are smaller confusions too. Israelis don’t wait in lines so much as clumps, and trying to be polite means you may never get to order. Most of the light switches are outside of the bathrooms – something I forget on the first Friday afternoon after having one single Goldstar and have to resign myself to peeing in the dark.
Starting out learning Arabic in Israel is strange – while Arabic is an official language in Israel, obviously the most popular language is Hebrew. Haifa is pretty secular and has a pretty mixed population of Arabs and Jews, but there’s still an undercurrent of tension. Even the Madrichim – the social coordinators – at the university ask us why we’re taking Arabic instead of Hebrew. My cab driver one night asks me if I was making Aliyah – the pilgrimage to Israel. When I told him I was there to study Arabic, he went silent for the rest of the ride.
I’ll be writing about the rest of my time in Israel over the next few weeks, so keep your eyes peeled – I’ll talk about my personal favorite, Nazareth, along with Jerusalem and Akko. Next week will be the Golan Heights – a tiny shred of land on the borders of Israel and Syria, where you can hear the Syrian army fighting with rebels a few miles away.
