On a lovely spring-like day I went to mail a letter. As I
approached the local post office, I noticed that, as usual,
there were several recent immigrants from the former Soviet
Union sitting on the benches opposite the entrance.
It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, a very busy time
at the post office, and the line of would-be customers had
filled the tiny building and then spilled out onto the
sidewalk, near the benches. I took my place on the line and,
for want of anything else to do as I waited to slowly inch
forward, I glanced over at the bench-sitters closest to
me.
One bench was occupied by a pair of straight-faced senior
citizen card players, laconically taking cards form the deck
in front of them and discarding others from their hands.
Sharing the bench were their same-age cronies who were
kibbitzing or cheering on the players.
Seated at one end of another bench were two gentlemen
involved in an animated conversation. At the other end, in
what appeared to be a self-imposed isolation, was a man of
about 60. His appearance was much the same as the other
Russians, except for two things: on the lapel of his jacket
was a rather large, quite elaborate medal, and on his face
was a look of despair.
What flashed through my mind as I looked at this extremely
forlorn individual was the verse in Tehillim in which Dovid
Hamelech describes the Jew in exile as a "lonely bird on a
rooftop."
Some of my fellow Americans have experienced minor adjustment
problems upon making aliya. There is the matter of spending
months in Ulpan and then trying to make oneself understood in
newly acquired Hebrew -- often with hilarious mistakes. Then
there are cultural differences. And of course, every family
has a favorite story about how they battled windmills at some
strata of the bureuacracy, be it with a government agency,
the city or even a bank.
Someone once pointed out to me that in Hebrew, when one wants
to say he is taking care of some matter, he says, "Ani
metapel b..." The letter beis always follows that
verb as a prefix to the next word. The most common meaning of
this prefix letter is `in.' As my friend explained, here in
Israel, when you want to take care of anything, you have to
get right `in' there in order to do so. You are going to
really get involved; hence the beis is well
deserved.
One of my neighbors used to come home after a morning of
trying to deal with a battery of clerks and say, "I am a
college graduate. Really. I went to a good college."
But within a few minutes, he could shake off his bewilderment
over this, the most recent evidence of his inability to
convey to the people in charge the most elementary of
arguments in Hebrew. Similarly, he would brush aside his
frustration at being unable to accomplish such seemingly
straightforward tasks as negotiating terms for his annual
municipal property tax payments. He would shrug his
shoulders, laugh, and go back to being his own jovial
self.
The forlorn Russian on the bench near the post office is most
probably also a relatively recent immigrant. He is also
learning Hebrew and dealing with the bureaucracy. But he
isn't so resilient. He isn't landing on his feet. His
equivalent of my neighbor's "I am a college graduate" is the
medal he wears on his chest. It says, "Look! In the old
country I was someone. I amounted to something. I exerted
power. See! I have this medal to prove it."
What is the difference between the American immigrant and the
Russian? the American is an observant Jew. He has a feeling
of self worth because he knows he is a beloved child of the
Master of the Universe.
The Russian was born in a Communist state that outlawed
religion and made Jewish education a criminal offense. His
grandfather might have been a proud Jew who davened
with tefillin and observed Shabbos and Kashrus.
However, seventy years of Communism created three generations
of Soviet Jews who were very far removed from their
heritage.
Many years ago, a friend of mine attended a workship for
people who had expressed an interest in going behind the Iron
Curtain to do outreach. They were told that in order to
develop a bond with the people they were going to meet, to
ask each person for his birthday and to acknowledge their
birthday when it arrived. It seems that in a state that
outlawed Shabbos, Pesach, Shavuos, Sukkos, Chanuka and Purim,
the only regularly occurring event that one could look
forward to was a birthday!
Yes, there are successful Kiruv programs and yes, they are
making inroads. However, the ignorance of Yiddishkeit that
still exists among many of our Eastern European brethren is
extremely sad. No wonder the man on the bench was so
forlorn.
Today, Jews may live in Monsey, Moscow or Meah Shearim. But
until Moshiach comes, we are all still in exile, and
therefore, we are all lonely birds sitting on a rooftop.
Nevertheless, we observant Jews have a distinct advantage. We
know Whose rooftop is providing our perch.
