Home sweet home? New York
Photo: AP
Who me? A yored?
It’s been seven years since I moved to New York. Does that really make me a yored?
Usually, I have this unexplained urge to find a reason to party. I then stick with it until the end – the end of the night, that is.
But this week I didn’t even need to look for an excuse. It’s standing right there in front of me. Or, more accurately, on the wall calendar facing my desk.
Although it’s common knowledge that someone who wants to be depressed can easily find triggers galore, I’ve taken that attitude to a new level. I can find a whole slew of excuses for a party.
My good friend has been fired? We have to commemorate his employment’s conclusion with dinner. My girlfriend is going away for the weekend? We can’t just ignore that. We should at least have a drink in honor of the occasion.
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Yaniv Halily
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Yes, my friends. I’ve now been living in New York for seven years.
At this point, I basically have two options. On the one hand, I can waft nostalgic about the man I used to be compared to the guy I’ve become; I can share the wisdom that I’ve acquired over the years; and I can be a source of inspiration to those just starting out.
But that approach is pretty lame. Besides, I’ve attempted it in the past, and it was boring enough the first time around.
'You’re still here?!'
So, I’d rather examine other people’s reactions. It’s significant that from the moment that I publicly announced that I’ve reached this milestone - which will be duly celebrated with a blowout dinner to be followed by a drinking bash to be followed by a major hangover - the reactions have not stopped pouring in.
It began with a chance encounter with someone who works for the Foreign Ministry. She came to New York five years ago, ostensibly in Israel’s service – but in reality, in order to find a husband. So far, she hasn’t been too successful, but she’s not giving up. Nevertheless, she had no qualms about projecting her anxiety onto me.
“Seven years?” she shouted at me. “Seven years and you’re still here?!”
Excuse me, but my visa is still valid, and as far I know, there’s no law against leaving Israel after a certain period of time. I mean, if there was such a law, who would make our sandwiches at the deli?
In any event, this desperate spinster didn’t let the facts get in her way. With all the Foreign Ministry’s research behind her, she asserted that “seven years is a long time.” Moreover, she categorically declared, I’m not going back to Israel.
But wait a minute, I protested as I vainly tried to rein in the runaway horse. I haven’t yet elected whether to go or stay, and I’m not even sure that such a decision needs to be made. That is, until the actual moment when one opts to leave.
These logical explanations didn’t seem to help. “That’s it. You’re a yored (an emigrant from Israel),” the Foreign Ministry’s non-resident expert concluded. I was forced to concede defeat.
It's matter of numbers
Yet, she wasn’t the only one who felt the need to quantify my life. Apparently, my choices can be reduced to simple mathematical problems.
“The first crisis arises after three years,” intoned T., who knows a thing or two about crises. “So you start asking yourself: ‘Do I live here or in Israel? Am I a yored or just temporarily living abroad?’
“Then comes the fifth year crisis, which is like the third year one, only stronger. If you make it through the fifth year crisis - in other words, you’re past seven years – that means that you’re never going back to Israel.
“No way. Never,” she stressed, as her eyes filled with Zionistic sorrow.
My good friend G., who has been in New York for four years, has another take on the issue. According to him, it’s all over after two years. “If you stay, then that’s it,” he pronounces.
Nothing I say convinces anyone. Last week, I had yet another “I’m not a yored; I haven’t made up mind” conversation with a friend. I tried to explain that I work for an Israeli newspaper, and therefore I am clearly not yet fully rooted in New York.
I further observed that I eat jachnun and chamin every weekend and attend Sarit Hadad concerts once a year. But it was no use.
“This tradition only shows that you’re a yored,” my friend sneered. “Who goes to Sarit Hadad concerts? Only someone who misses his homeland which he left.”
I don’t know
The bottom line is that although I haven’t yet decided where I want to live, I have made up my mind that I’m not going to think about this year. I’ll go with the flow and enjoy - until I get sick of it or they close the local branch of Sushi Samba.
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what my beloved mother has to say on the subject. After all, Big Sister is always watching me.
As can be expected from someone who rode on camelback in the dark of night from Iran to Israel, my mother is a fervent Zionist. (Just kidding! She flew on El Al, but you have to admit that the Ethiopian saga makes better copy.)
She proves her impeccable Zionist credentials by displaying an Israeli flag on Independence Day and by cursing out the Prime Minister when he appears on television. However, when it comes to my life, she remains neutral.
“Decide and do what’s best for you,” she says. “If you want to stay in New York, stay. The main thing is that you should be happy.”
Then comes the kicker. “But you should know that I just finished cleaning your room at home. Maybe you’ll come back?”
Yaniv Halily is New York correspondent of Yedioth Achronot.
