No. It’s not a spelling error. In fact it was a typo I decided to keep and use for the title. It’s my third week living in Israel while I test out the waters of Aliya. I resigned from my TV news writing job in New York to pursue a dream of living in Israel. My plan? To live in my homeland, be a journalist and decide if this is where I’ll stay forever.
In the meantime, there’s paperwork to fill out. Trying to get a visa has been a process. The lady at the consulate in New York told me to enter with a visitor’s visa and figure it out after. Another woman behind the window told me it’s tough for Israelis to get work visas in the United States — so why should it be easy for me to get one from Israel? She enjoyed my struggle. It could have been easy for me to get a visa from New York. It could have been processed the same day. But my company told me to take care of it on my own from within Eretz Yisrael. That meant going to the Ministry of Interior in Jerusalem.
I arrived with my Hebrew-speaking cousin. Barukh HaShem for her. When we arrived at noon, we found the hours posted outside. We had an hour and a half before the place opened and a man standing in front of the door advised us to get in line to save ourselves a spot.
Within 10 minutes a line formed.
Within 12 minutes there was already a fight.
I felt shoving over my shoulder as an older man wanted to cut through the line and sit on a plastic chair near the entryway. A man behind me told him he couldn’t go ahead of us. They argued and pushed each other around. This lasted for 10 minutes. Some of us giggled. Some smiled. And someone’s mom eventually shut it down.
One woman started pressing the doorbell to the ministry and making cooky noises when someone came to the receiver. She laughed and laughed and then started singing Hebrew songs that made her and the people around us cackle. I wish I knew what she was saying. But I’ll soon learn!
A security guard came out with metal gates to procure a proper line. By 13:00 (1pm), the line had reached the end of the block.
My cousin and I entertained ourselves by chatting with our neighbors in the queue. One woman in a hijab said she didn’t speak Hebrew or Arabic and asked aloud if anyone spoke Spanish. I do! …And everyone told me not to expect to use my Spanish in the Holy Land. I laugh at that. Every language is spoken in this beautiful mixed up country.
The woman who everyone assumed was an Israeli Arab was actually born and raised in Venezuela and moved to Israel last month to escape starvation. The country has taken such a deep economic downturn that authority figures have handed out rabbits to households. Hoping that middle class families could learn how to breed bunnies, skin them, cook them for meals and use their fur for warmth. I’d like to see a tutorial on that from President Nicolas Maduro.
My cousin was in disbelief we had made friends with an Arabic woman. I was in disbelief I had waited on a line for an hour and a half and still had a half smile on.
13:30 arrived and we surged through security. We met the woman who gives out numbers dependent on what service you need. We told her we needed a visa. She told us the visa department isn’t open on Wednesdays and that we should come back tomorrow between 8 and 9am. Our mouths dropped. We stood there shaken up. Half of the people on line behind us were about to be turned away too. But none of them knew it yet. Couldn’t they have put up a sign to let people know the visa department is closed on Wednesdays?
The next day was a mission. I was up at 05:30, with intentions to be on the line by 07:00. My cousin and I made it by 07:25. The line surpassed the corner this time. Many of the same heads we’d seen the day before.
We waited. We got a number. We went up. I brought my documents to the reception. The receptionist asked me if I was a Jew. I confirmed. He asked me if I had documents. I confirmed. He asked me if I had copies of my documents. Copies? No. I don’t have copies! He said we had to go downstairs and to the left to make copies. He would hold my number in line while I ran the errand.
We went downstairs. No copy machine. What did he mean? We went outside and looked to the left. No store with a copy machine. What was he talking about? We asked around frantically. We were directed by a store owner. We made the copies. We headed back around the corner to the ministry. We went through security again, but bypassed the line. Thanks to a quick exchange in Hebrew my cousin made with the guard before we exited. Barukh HaShem.
Back upstairs. The receptionist honored his promise. He gave me my number to meet with the woman who would make my visa finally happen. We waited. A heavily made up woman sitting at the visa counter shushed us as we greeted the hijabi Venezuelan woman. We shook her hand good morning. My cousin later that evening recounted the moment — telling me she couldn’t believe she shook the hand of a Muslim woman. I am astonished at her astonishment. But that’s for another article.
Finally we got called to sit with the woman who had just shushed us minutes earlier. We wait for her patiently while she finishes the documents from the last young man. Then she gets on the phone and looks at a scrap paper with some numbers on it and reads them into her phone. In a whisper, we catch on that she is making bets with a coworker. I hope she won a million on the horses.
Finally we get her attention. I hand over passport pictures and show her my birth certificate. My cousin and I did not speak unless spoken to. When we finished, we asked where the visa was. She laughed aloud and told us to come back and get it in one month.
My heart drops. I can’t start working without the visa and I can’t keep pushing off the start date for my new gig. I was actually told I would lose my spot if I didn’t get the visa quick enough.
We tell the administrator that we need it sooner than that. She is annoyed that have spoken and asks me what I want. In English, I plea that I’ll lose the job if I can’t get it processed any faster. She tells me in English “Mami. If the job is for you, no one can take it from you. Only G-d can.” She gives me a fake smile. On my way out I asked the friendly receptionist when I should come back to pick up the B/1 visa. He said “come see me in two weeks.”
I told this story to some Israelis who made Aliya from America . They all said the same thing: Welcome to Israel.
Love this article. Shanna Fuld has a take on life like no other. This article had me chuckling out loud.