Sitting opposite my Jewish Agency shaliach—my personal aliyah liaison—in his cramped but cozy New York City office last spring, I seemed to be doing pretty well. Sure, I was missing a couple of documents, and I had no employment plan for when my yearlong internship at a Middle East think-tank in Tel Aviv was set to end (“probably grad school, I guess”), but I already spoke pretty good Hebrew, which is a start.

Finding a place to live would be easy, he assured me, and I had friends and family there for support along the way. He went puppy-eyed when I mentioned that my boyfriend already lives in Israel (“Now I get it!  You’re moving for love!”), and smiled sympathetically while I tried to explain that I’m an independent woman and I’m moving for me. The documents I had carefully tucked into a manila envelope the night before were now spread haphazard over his desk, their margins filled with tiny Hebrew scribbles. He dislodged one loose piece of paper and carefully examined both sides, eyebrows raised.

My heart sank. It was my financial affidavit. If you want to apply for financial aid for aliyah, you need to present the Jewish Agency with a picture of what you’re working with—or without. I was in the final throes of my senior year, weighed down by student debt, I had no assets, and I’d just burned through half my checking account on a semester abroad and unpaid internships. My financial situation was less than robust. “You need money,” he said, looking me in the eyes. “There are people who can help you with that. They’ve been known to give big grants. Up to $1000. It looks like you’d qualify.” He began furiously typing on his computer, turned towards me again, and without even a dramatic pause, dropped the bomb: “They’re an Evangelical group.”

I have always looked at Evangelical Christian Zionists the way I hope pro-Palestinian activists look at the Neturei Karta; I appreciate that they’re there for us, but their ulterior motive is just too distasteful to overlook. Sure, they’re very enthusiastic about Israel’s right to self-defense and her frequent games of foreign policy hardball, certainly more than I am. But the fact that they’re only really into it because they believe that Jews need to return to Israel in order to bring about the End Times, in which all Jews will either be killed or converted, leaves me a little hesitant. I remembered a scene from a few months earlier, sitting in my kitchen chair as my mom told our very opinionated Italian hairdresser that I was moving to the Holy Land. Brandishing a steaming flatiron, she declaimed that the Jews were the true chosen people, and that they would always be defended by God Himself, and they shall not be harmed as they battle the nonbelievers, so says the prophecy. My mother, hair half-straightened, could only tersely nod.

The website of Operation Exodus makes no pretenses. It clearly states that the group was founded after God Himself spoke to its founder, Gustav Scheller, urging him to return the Jews to the land of Israel.  This is good for the church, too, it argues, because it fulfills the prophecy of the New Testament. I was glad to see that they don’t downplay the Christian connection–this is no Jews for Jesus “synagogue” front. The message is couched in Christian language; part tract, part time-share brochure. And for the supporters themselves, it offers myriad ways to get involved. There are opportunities for volunteer work, monetary donations (naturally), education, and the chance to join the most important force of all: the prayer network.

From my time browsing the site, I learned two things. The first is that this group is not kidding around. They are 100 percent dedicated to the cause of plucking me from my house in suburban New Jersey and bringing me “home” (or to “the Land,” as Israel is continuously referred to, a Hebrewism I found at once unsettling and endearing).  The second is that this group has no intention to convert or secretly baptize me, at least until I touch ground at Ben Gurion airport. They need me, and they need me Jewish.

“Don’t do it,” my mother said. “Who knows what you’re going to do in the future?  You might work for the State Department”–a fantasy of hers, where I work in Washington instead of Tel Aviv–“or as an international journalist. They’re going to dig up all the dirt they can find on you, especially who you took money from.”

But I have no plans to work in Washington, no aspirations to be a solemn journalist, and no funds with which to pay back my student loans. I started the application process. “I’m working a system that was built to exploit me,” I told her. “They’re paying me because they want me to die so that Jesus can come back. But he won’t. I’m going to get an apartment with my boyfriend instead. And if Jesus does come back, well, I think it’ll take a lot more than that to bring down Tel Aviv rent.” She wasn’t convinced. I retroactively justified my application with a caveat: if I take the money, I need to write about it, to publish the fact that I did it, with my name on it.  I need it to be out in the open.

I put my heart and soul into that application.  I cited my hopes and fears, my reasons and rationales, and my glaring need.  The woman I was working with asked me to call her when I received my flight confirmation, and when I did, I nervously dialed the number. I expected a Stepford wife, an uptight Church Lady, a Jesus Camp mom who kept invoking “the Land,” but she wasn’t. She was sincere and sweet and bright, reminiscent of my Minnesotan freshman roommate. She read in my file that my family was from Syria, and asked with panic if they were safe. (I assured her that, mercifully, we had all emigrated.) She told me that my money was on its way, and that my first name had been given to a number of people who devoted their time to prayer. “Especially in the absorption period, those first six to twelve months, it’s so hard for olim, new immigrants. So just know that you’re in people’s thoughts, people who want you to succeed.”

I couldn’t thank her enough. I even got choked up. In the year since I’d started my immigration process until that day, I had only told the people I was close to—or religious Jews—exactly where I was going after graduation, and that it was going to be a permanent move. In the past, stories beginning with “when I was in Israel,” were met at my small liberal arts college with the sorts of glares you’d shoot at someone who casually mentioned brunching with Bin Laden. And yet, there are people hundreds of miles away who are thinking positively of me in Israel when they pray.

My check came with a logo-ed tote bag and a letter of support from the representative I had been emailing with, including a quote from Jeremiah and addresses and phone numbers of offices in Israel if I needed further support. “All the best, Linda!” read a handwritten note scrawled in the margin. Also included was a small postcard, part of their “words of encouragement” campaign. A woman named Wendy affixed two stickers in opposite corners; one of cherry blossoms, another of the American and Israeli flags blurring together, an image that usually makes my inner leftist cringe. Wendy thanked me for giving her the opportunity to help “one of G-d’s chosen to return home,” the Jewish strikeout of the “o” all her own, a sentiment that would have made me wince were it not for the earnestness in each looping, handwritten letter. She also included a blessing, and a reminder that I’m in her prayers. I found it charming. She put her time and energy into this note, and to be honest, in a time of war and uncertainty, in a time when support for my move was scarce, her words were needed.

There has been a perceptible shift in the way I say “the Evangelicals” now.  I’m not quite prepared to embrace the movement as a whole—I’m still not cool with the fact that they’re limiting my rights as a woman in America, for instance—but my political disapproval has been tempered by the generosity of this particular group. Sure, they might only want to help me because they foresee a future where I’m a casualty in a prophetic war, but they also sincerely want me to thrive here and now. If they can help me make ends meet as a broke 21-year-old starting a new life in a foreign country, I can forgive their apocalyptic visions. They’re doing their Christian duty facilitating my return to “the Land,” I’m allowing them fulfill it by accepting their help: it’s a mutually beneficial gesture, in its own way. An interfaith mitzvah.

Linda Dayan is a writer and Middle East researcher living in Tel Aviv, Israel. You can follow her on Twitter at @tiredestmeerkat.

(Image: Peter Gudella / Shutterstock.com)

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Israel is trying to sell aliyah to young Americans with a “hip” new humorous advertisement. Yesterday, the Ministry of Immigration and Absorption released a video pitch on YouTube more reminiscent of a deodorant commercial than high-minded Zionist ideals. Think Old Spice, not Herzl.

As Haviv Rettig Gur reports in The Times of Israel, around 2,000 Americans make the big move each year—same as 20 years ago. With pressure from the Israeli government to increase those numbers, this commercial attempts to make Israel appealing to Americans not by way of ideology, long-standing heritage, or by introducing Israeli culture to Americans, but instead by promoting the things that make America appealing to Jewish Americans: well paid tech and medical jobs, and (if you live in Florida or California at least) beautiful beaches.

The campaign does have one interesting angle: the promise of a free education “on Uncle Shmuel’s tab.” With debate in the U.S. raging over growing economic inequality, student debt, and the need for more affordable education, this is the most convincing selling point.

But that seems to be the one redeeming quality of a commercial that, while sort of enjoyable to watch (if only for the actor’s amusing facial expressions) doesn’t say much about actual, day-to-day life in Israel. Obviously that’s impossible to elucidate in a 90-second clip, but if it weren’t for commanding-voice-over-guy explaining the wonders of Israel, the visuals could have been promoting immigration to just about any other Mediterranean locale.

Then there’s the obviously male-dominated focus: for a few seconds, our tall, vaguely Semitic hero reclines on the beach alongside a sexy female companion. “Shabbat Shalom!” he cries, as she whispers sweet Hebrew nothings in his ear. Later he sits astride a camel (buffeting a matkot ball with a paddle) next to woman who does precisely nothing. Anyone who makes aliyah with the expectation that Israeli women will serve as their props is living in a fantasy land.

And that, really, is exactly what this commercial is selling: a fantasy. But, like Americans, most Israelis will still marry, start a family and spend 40 percent of their day at work. Some will even have to choose between different toothpaste brands, especially with all that milk and honey flying about.

(Image: YouTube)

Zachary Schrieber is a graduate of Hunter College and is currently an intern with Tablet Magazine. You can find him on Twitter at @zschrieber.

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I made aliyah just in time for a war. I left my home in Australia full of excitement, determination, and a belief in the wonderful future that was waiting for me in Israel. I had every hope that I would live a fulfilling and happy life in the land that I love. On June 12, as I left my family, friends, and boyfriend behind, everything felt possible.

On June 12, three Israeli teenagers went missing.

As I sit here at my favorite cafe in Kerem Hateimanim, the little Yemenite neighborhood of Tel Aviv I have fallen in love with, I think about the sheer magnitude of the escalation of violence. I think about how my own personal beginning is unfolding against a backdrop of suffering in a beautiful country that for so long I have been wanting to call home.

The news of the murder of the Israeli teens, followed all too swiftly by the revenge killing of a Palestinian teen, was met with a collective gasp from a horrified nation. We were using each other’s children as weapons. In those early days, I walked the streets watching the people around me, their heads bowed low with regret, fear, and the knowledge of what was to come. Those long summer days have somehow trickled into weeks, and each week brings with it a deeper descent into a grave reality.

It has been difficult to set up a life in these unsettling times. I am still looking for a home, a job, a way to set in motion the life I have always dreamed of. But I am preoccupied, as is everyone in this country. Beyond our own immediate worries are greater, more pressing fears. Barely a day has gone by without hearing the sound of sirens bellowing throughout the city. Everywhere I go I am within earshot of the resounding ‘booms’ of war. Each day we wake up with a sense of dread about what might have happened while we were sleeping—or not sleeping—the night before. How many more innocent lives have been lost? How many more children have been taken from their mothers? How much more of this can we stand?

Amid the plethora of posts about the of Israeli-Palestinian conflict you will read or have already read today, you have found your way to me—or I have found my way to you. You have come across the words of an Australian girl feeling her way through a war zone, trying to make a life in conditions most other nations would consider unlivable. I take my seat at the table of an overwrought conversation, but I hope to make a contribution by describing to you the Israel I have chosen.

On my first day as an Israeli, I was greeted warmly by a group of friends, many of whom had made their aliyah journeys before me. I saw that they had morphed into new, Israeli version of themselves. Some were soldiers; others had spent time in Yeshiva. Some had worked the land; others had walked the land. They were living lives vastly different to those of our peers in our home countries. I am inspired by the realization that in this place, there is no telling where I could go, what I could do, or who I could one day become.

As for the Israelis—this huge, dysfunctional family continues to move me. Since my arrival I have heard of countless rallies organized in the name of solidarity, I have sat in a circle of bereaved Israeli parents (who unfortunately could not meet with their Arab counterparts) who gather nightly to tell their stories together in the name of peace, I have seen a memorial built on the Tel Aviv promenade for a 21-year-old soldier killed in Gaza only a week ago. I have traveled the country and seen that some of the most beautiful lookouts, springs, and forests are dedicated in the names of those who have died fighting for our freedom to enjoy them. I have been to a gig in the city where candles were passed out to the audience, the lead singer reminding us all to keep hope in our hearts for a bright tomorrow. It feels impossible, but we do.

This is Israel. These are Israelis. In this place the call of war is answered not only by soldiers, but by an entire country asking “What can I do?” Volunteers work tirelessly looking after other people’s children in bomb shelters as parents go out to work; supplies are collected all over the country and driven to hospitals, bases, and cities in need. Struggling businesses in the south are assisted by special markets set up for people in the north and center of Israel to purchase their goods. The whole country mobilizes into action, and everyone becomes everyone’s responsibility.

The other day I traveled with a dear friend, Rotem, to visit wounded soldiers at Soroka Medical Center in Beersheva. As we made our way through the ward, the news of my recent aliyah was met by the soldiers and their families with wide smiles and a series of congratulations. These incredible young men had been on the front in Gaza only days before, and here they were telling me what a great job I had done in coming to Israel. Later, after Rotem and I left the ward to sit outside and gather our thoughts, we watched two small Arab children approach an Israeli child with balloons. Within minutes, all three kids were frolicking and laughing on the grass. The grandmother of the Israeli child turned to us and said, “This is what it could be like.” Despite the chaos of the crumbling world around us, I know that this was true.

I made aliyah from Australia just in time for a war. But my new beginning in Israel is in good company; I draw strength from the people around me. I think of friends who were married to the soundtrack of sirens; I think of my newly pregnant friend, who despite her husband being called to reserve duty three weeks ago, maintains strength, calm and hope for the new beginning growing inside her. My Israeli friends are people who don’t believe in talk, just action. A dear friend tells me, “Tachlis, get on with it, start doing!” and that’s the way they live. I take my lead from them.

I think often about the choice I made to come to Israel, the implications that it has had on my life, and the reverberations my choice will have one day on my children. Yet, every day I feel affirmed in the life that I have chosen for myself, and I feel strengthened by the support of my extraordinary Israeli family around me.

Everything still feels possible.

Melanie Koss is a lawyer and writer from Melbourne, Australia currently living in Tel Aviv. Follow her on Twitter at @mellehkoss.

(Image: Benjamin / Flickr)

The post Reflections on Wartime Aliyah: Despite Fear and Loss, Hope Prevails appeared first on Jewcy.

Are you thinking of making aliyah but not sure what to do about your beloved canine pal? Never fear, olim-to-be: the Israeli Pet Travel Agency is here for you. According to their statistics, more than 6,000 pets made the move to Israel in 2012:

Dr. Eytan Kreiner, founder and CEO at The Israeli Pet Flight Agency, understands the special challenges awaiting pet owners in the relocation process. Having met so many Olim and returning citizens in the course of the last two decades, he knows that a pet can make a huge difference to a young child who is dealing with the stress of Aliyah, who has left his friends and all that is familiar to him, behind. Our pets are much loved members of the family and the thought of leaving them behind is heartbreaking.

But what does the Israeli Pet Travel Agency actually do, you ask?

· We can help you import your pet even if it is considered ‘banned breed’.

· We can help you fly with your pet, in the main cabin, as an ’emotional support animal’ in case you have a special condition and need your pet with you for support throughout the flight.

· We can help you import an exotic animal (if it is a home pet).

Well, what are you waiting for?

(Image via Shutterstock)

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