By William Finn

diary of a former oleh

typical israelis

  One has a sense of history while living in Israel. I’m not referring to piles of old stones or cities with Biblical names. When I lived there, it seemed that almost everyone I met had played a part in some momentous event, or at least thought they did.

   My first job in Israel was working as a chiropractor in a Tel Aviv alternative healthcare clinic. One day, some of the other therapists carried in an old man. Inexplicably, he couldn’t walk. The therapists treated this patient with a reverence approaching awe. “He is living history. He was on the Exodus,” they explained. The real ship, not the one in the movie.

   While the old man’s problem was serious, it was very simple from a chiropractic perspective. One adjustment and he’s off the table, asking when he can start playing tennis again. The other therapists looked at me with new respect. Even the clinic’s janitor was impressed. His opinion mattered because in the Soviet Union, he had been a prestigious heart surgeon. Some Russians complain that their superb education is being wasted in the kind of menial jobs that immigrants usually get. Whenever I saw this highly trained professional emptying the trash, I thought they were right.

   After my successful treatment, I went to lunch. Someone once described Tel Aviv as Warsaw without the charm. I tend to think of it as Mexico City; crowded and trashy, but no murals and even worse air. Among the jumble of gleaming new steel buildings and crumbling concrete edifices, I found a Yemenite restaurant. The proprietor noticed my American accent, and bragged that he was briefly the chauffeur for John Gotti, the famous gangster. While I sipped a lemony chicken soup, he regaled me with tales of clandestine midnight runs from New York to Miami.

   After lunch, my only patient was a terribly sick woman. Her condition was beyond mine or anybody’s ability to help. My treatment gave the woman a little relief, but my real contribution was listening to her and her husband reminisce about their youth. They were born in Baghdad, and like every Iraqi I have ever met, they rhapsodized about the beauty and culture of their native land. During the 1950s, it became clear that the wealthy and British-oriented Iraqi Jewish community was doomed. My patient’s husband left her in Baghdad, snuck out of the country and walked to Israel. He spent two years preparing for the arrival of the Iraqi Jews. Surreptitiously, he and his wife exchanged love letters. It was dangerous, thrilling and very romantic. Then he returned to Iraq, organized the Jewish community and led them on a secret march back to Israel. He did all this while he was still in his 20s. I think the biggest accomplishment in my 20s was flushing the radiator of my car.

   After work, I took the bus home. “How was work?” asked my wife.

   “OK. One therapeutic win. One failure.”

   “Meet anyone interesting?”

   “The usual.”

William Finn and his wife Linda Elyad are native-born Americans who lived in Israel from 1994-2001.

If you love Israel, and like to laugh, look for “Where will the Atheists Pray? Life and Laughter in Israel” by Bill Finn (under the name of William Louis Finn). Published by Ruder & Finn in July, it is a humorous, yet thoughtful look at life in Israel. Available as a paperback through Barnes & Noble, and Amazon.com.


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