Thursday, January 01, 2004

This section of the anglosaxy blog is dedicated to me and my sorrowful tale of just how the heck I ended up in Israel. For those of you who already know me, get back to the main page, you fools!

For those of you curious about how I came up with the name anglosaxy, er, the answer is pretty boring: when I first started using the Internet some 7 years ago, I coined the moniker anglosaxy as my chat alter-ego, long since dead however. In addition to that, after getting a deluge of books about the history of England one Xmas (cheers Dad!), I have decided to lean towards my anglo-saxon roots, especially as I am an endangered species in this neck of the woods...

This blog is intended to give you an alternative peek into life in the Holy Land, without being too blinkered or patronising...

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It all started with a documentary type film that was shown on the BBC, back in 1989 if I'm not mistaken. The film gave an insight into life on a Kibbutz and I was hooked. I'm not so sure it was the idealism that took hold of me, maybe it was more the climate, desert scenery and fun that everybody seemed to be having.

The second 'nail in the coffin' involved an ex-girlfriend who wrote to me from a Kibbutz in Northern Israel and told me about all the fun she was having. That sealed it for me. I started to read up on Israel and about volunteering on a Kibbutz in particular.

In June 1990, I set out from home, caught the train to London and set off on a three day, cross-Europe 'Magic Bus' trip to Athens, Greece. My original plan was to go island-hopping for a few weeks, go to Israel and stay for a month, maybe two, on a Kibbutz and then return to Europe, most probably Denmark, where I had a good friend. The whole shebang was scheduled to take around three months as my job back in sunny England was being kept open by my too generous boss.

As we all remember, 1990 saw Mr. Saddam Hussein rather prominently featured in the news for his escapades in Kuwait. At the same time, I was getting ever closer to the region, though my progress to the 'real' Middle East was slowing down while I took stock of the situation. After reaching Cyprus (where I literally camped out with another couple of Brits and their tents, and worked as a grape-picker) in August however, there was to be no turning back. I informed my boss that I had decided not to return as scheduled and he wished me luck and told me to be careful. Israel was like an invisible hand, reaching out over thousands of miles and tugging at me constantly.

In September 1990, I landed at Haifa docks, after taking the overnight ferry from Cyprus. After getting through immigration, I was nabbed by a group of 'runners' from a hostel in Tel Aviv. They successfully grabbed another handful of tourists and then shuttled us down to Tel Aviv in their minibus. I didn't really have any definite plans anyway, but I knew I had to get down to Tel Aviv if I wanted to get on a Kibbutz. The hostel, the legendary Purple House, was very cool and there was some great people staying and working there.

I soon bonded with a few of the longtermers, or lifers, and knew that I would be staying longer than a month or two. My savings were beginning to dry up at the same time, so I started to 'run' (in return for bringing a couple of tourists a day to the hostel, I was paid food and lodging) for the hostel and also did shifts on reception. After two or three weeks, the idea of getting on a Kibbutz also started to dry up and soon went altogether. I was having too good a time in Tel Aviv.

As George Bush's ultimatum to Saddam neared, the tourists staying at the hostel, and generally throughout the whole of Israel, started to leave. Don't ask me why, but despite the pleas of both my mother and my Israeli girlfriend, I wanted to stay. The threat seemed very real then of course, but there was something very camaraderie about the hostel and the hardcore group that remained there. Don't get me wrong, I was scared, and even got my first gas mask, but I wasn't running. I had become attached to something, quite what I'm still not sure, but I wasn't about to join the queues at the airport. Now when I'm sitting here and writing this, I'm thinking that maybe I wanted the adventure to continue and that if I got on a plane, that would be the end of it. I knew there was more...

After the first night of Scuds, one memory of sitting in the bar with Mark the barman the next morning sticks out. We managed to polish off a crate of beer (20 beers..) while simultaneously infusing each other with bravado. We were both scared, but it was our immediate way with dealing with it...and it worked, apart from the hangover!

Another memory that still holds strong is my trek to the local 'corner-shop' down in Allenby Street (at this time, NOBODY was open except for the legendary sleaze shops on the corner of Allenby and HaYarkon streets) to buy some munchies. After making my purchase, the haunting wail of the sirens suddenly punctuated the night air. I just ran for it, never so scared in all my life. My vulnerability hit home to me as my heart, and legs, raced. What if a chemical warhead landed (I had left my gas mask at the hostel)? Would I make it back to the hostel in time? Etc, etc,... In short, I made it back OK, donned my gas mask, herded myself into the sealed room with the others and sat and waited for the 'boom' of a Scud hit. Ah, those were the days! I think I'll have to write a book one day, because there are so many amazing experiences from that time, some of which I have jotted down in a diary somewhere...

Despite those hair-raising experiences, my bond with Israel had tightened. The Gulf War survivors in the hostel soon went their own way however, including myself. I moved in with my girlfriend, and her family, and I became a permanent fixture. Without getting into too much detail, I'll save that for my book(!), I experienced an Israeli family at first-hand, including the legendary Jewish mother - now that will make interesting reading in my book...

As a tourist, I was not officially allowed to work. The reality, however, is a lot different, and you can always find work. The jobs I found were not the most illustrious, but they provided me with rent-money etc,. I worked as a sandwich maker, house cleaner, painter, removal guy, gardener, construction worker, hostel receptionist, dish washer, and so on. These kinds of jobs are always open to tourists, as the Israelis are generally too lazy to take on this kind of manual work.

In short, this existence and bond with Israel continued for a number of years until I finally got married in January 1996. This move raises other issues for me, because as a non-Jew, I cannot marry a Jewish citizen in Israel. Let's not delve into this too deeply, because it raises the hackles and is something that can be talked about for years and years...

Anyway, my marriage has meant I now have Israeli citizenship, which means army service, overhauling your politeness level and joining a startup Hi-tech company! Seriously, gaining citizenship has opened the doors I wanted opening and improved my life. I have since studied and began working as a Technical Writer/Author some six years ago, though am now setting up my own English school. My real dreams still live on, including that cool, little English-type pub with live bands and imported English bitter...yeh baby!