No love for you
In Russia I was the 'Zhid,' in Israel I was a 'stinking Russian. The feeling of inferiority set in. Falling in love carried the risk of being ridiculed or the sense that there was always someone better, with a real Israeli name like Alon or Boaz'
One thing I learned at an early age was that “Jewboy” or “Zhid” were names for the worst sort of person. I understood this when they were chasing me in the streets and yelling, “catch the Zhid”, or when the children in the neighborhood would yell “Jewboy, Jewboy.” I used to scream: “I’m not a Zhid!”
I was given a Russian last name so that I would have opportunities denied to my parents. But the situation grew steadily worse, including swastikas painted on our door. In 1990 we left our lives and possessions behind and moved to Israel.
I remember landing in Israel: we were dressed warmly and arrived during a heat wave. Now it all seems like a distant dream, a strange game. We weren’t expecting paradise, but we were expecting something basic, which we had never known: acceptance. We came to the land where we would no longer be “Zhids."
'Stinking Russian'
I loved riding my bike in our courtyard. I rode in an open field near my house, where I met other children from the neighborhood and played soccer and hide and seek. There was a small, strange girl who would shout things that I did not understand.
Her screams and her childish angry face amused me. I thought it was a kind of game; but I quickly learned her expression translated into “stinking Russian”. I understood that she hated me, I just couldn’t understand why.
We settled in a relatively exclusive neighborhood, where there were few new immigrants. In the anti-Russian wave that swept the country during the 1990’s, new immigrants created a microcosm where they could find refuge in the company of each other. It is not clear if this gathering of “Russians” created this alienation, or if it was the “anti-Russians” that caused this gathering. In any case, I was totally alone among Israelis.
On the popularity scale that we all remember from elementary school, I was on the bottom. I was the outcast, the boy that gets beaten up, who isn’t allowed to play soccer. My only wish was to be accepted, to have friends, to be considered equal. People called me “stinking Russian” more than they used my real name.
I never started the fights, and I tried to prevent them as much as possible so that I wouldn’t be characterized as violent and ruin any chance I might have to make friends. I excelled at sports and was the class champion at short distance running.
It is difficult to express the intensity of my desire to be accepted. You have to experience it in order to understand the frustration, the anger at those who hate for no reason, the humiliation that a boy is willing to undergo in order not to be alone. I just wanted to talk to someone who wouldn’t tell me to take my prostitute mother and return to Russia.
I fell in love for the first time in fourth grade. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in class but she was extremely cute. This new, strange and wonderful feeling washed over me whenever I saw her. I sneak glances whenever I could. I remember the childish dreams I would have of saving her from my bullies. A cute, smart girl, with glasses and light brown hair, at the age when you start to notice the differences between men and women, the age where if a boy and girl hold hands they create a social scene and a tsunami of rumors.
Attempts at love
As an outcast, it never occurred to me to speak to her. It was the acceptance of inferiority. I believed I was on the margins of society, and I knew I would be mocked if I attempted to speak. Once somebody told everyone that I was in love with her, it was the most embarrassing moment of my youth. Thus I got used to not looking at the object of my affection, turning away and never for a moment revealing my feelings.
In high school I fell in love with the class snob. We spoke four times in two years (including “what time is it?”). I would find roundabout ways to look at her, through the reflection of the stapler, or from afar during gym. My one Russian friend and I were constantly being picked on.
One day in a three on two fight (thankfully my friend studied martial arts), we managed to push away our attackers. The next day around 30 people came to lynch us with sticks and stones, for it was unacceptable that a “Russian” would dare raise a hand to an “Israeli” and not be punished.
The expressions “stinking Russian”, “prostitute mother”, vodka, promiscuity, and violence were part of my routine, and without realizing it, I internalized them. These expressions became a part of me even though I don’t drink, I never started a fight, my mother is not a prostitute, and we have nowhere to return.
Eventually I became a shy, introverted boy in the body of an adult. I couldn’t stand being in the presence of others. A date was punishment, an internal battle. I could not accept the fact that there was a chance that someone could love me. Certainly there would be someone else better than me, more successful, with more experience and who had a name like Alon or Boaz.
Phantom of the opera
The girls I went out with were girls who took the initiative. I would break up with them before they had the opportunity to confirm what I thought about myself. I would tell them that they weren’t right for me. I missed out on a first love, a youthful romance that you remember for years afterwards. Love became a myth, something that happened to others. I was content to think of myself as a martyr, a kind of phantom of the opera, who will always pine for the girl who was in love with a Sabra.
Then, depression took hold. I thought I was having a nervous breakdown, I suffered outbursts of emotions and extreme frustration. Feelings of self-hatred and inferiority accompanied me everywhere, whether I was laughing or crying.
I was pushed away, this time rightfully so, I was preoccupied with trying to attract attention by preventing anyone from getting close to me. When you are depressed, people ask you questions and you get daily attention. It’s a great trick, but it is only temporary; people around you get annoyed and you are once again alone.
Today, when I think back to what I went through, I am amazed at how easily I internalized the abuse. Even though years have passed and I speak Hebrew fluently, I am a university student, I go out, I appear to live like every other young Israeli- I still can not relinquish these feelings of inferiority. I still feel different and not worthy of love and attention.
The problem is that inferiority complex is quite resistant. It is rooted in my being influencing my thoughts and actions. Yes, I am a different person now, and I dare anyone to now call me a "stinking Russian." It's been a while since I last heard it.
I hate self-pity though I dwell in it. I am embarrassed at how pathetic I feel typing these words and would rather have my tonsils taken out than feel your pity. And yet I still cannot overcome these feelings. They are a part of me.
Yet this is my way of coping. I have to deal with the past, condense it and put it on paper. I have to retell everything without bias and examine it from every angle. I will write down the last sentence, look at the file in front of me and press “save.” My past lays in front of me, trapped in the pixels. My future can begin now, love awaits me.
Fictional name, true story.
