How I ended up in the Holy Land. And stayed… Part 5

Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school. 

In case you missed them; Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

Part 5: Ofira vanquishes Saddam!

As the summer wound down and those long sunny days sat on the beach slowly petered out, the world’s attention on the Middle Eastern region was getting ever more focused, what with George Bush’s January ultimatum to Saddam getting nearer and nearer. But despite the danger that seemed right on my doorstep (and soon was!), I was falling for Ofira and probably had my head in the clouds at that point (or more possibly, up my arse).

The tourists I’d befriended at the Purple House hostel, and generally throughout the whole of Israel, had started to leave quite a bit before January. Don’t ask me why, but despite the pleas of both my mother and Ofira, who herself was just about to be called up to the Israeli army for her national service, I wanted to stay. It wasn’t until I went to a gas mask pickup point on Shenkin Street, probably sometime in late December/early January, that I realised that the situation was getting very serious and that I should perhaps start wearing clean underwear.

The threat seemed very real then of course, but there was something very camaraderie about the hostel and the hardcore group that remained there – we were probably about 15 tourists/migrant workers left come ultimatum time. Don’t get me wrong, I was scared, but I wasn’t running. I had become attached to something, but I wasn’t about to join the queues at the airport. I had been having the time of my life up to this point and I wasn’t about to let go. Looking back, it’s fairly obvious I wanted the adventure to continue and that if I got on a plane, that would be the end of it. I knew there was more…

And then, all of a sudden, there was a war on. All that scaremongering hadn’t been just silly posturing, that silly old git Saddam really was throwing Scud missiles at Israel. I had been fairly oblivious to it all (that’s what an Israeli woman will do to you!) up to that point, that first night of Scuds on January 18th 1991, but once the allied coalition had struck, the whole of Tel Aviv came to a standstill, anticipating some kind of attack from Saddam. Of course, the big fear was chemical weapons, but fortunately, that was just a bit too far to go, even for crazy old Saddam.

I’ll never forget that first night of Scuds, especially the boom as those Scuds landed in some distant part of Tel Aviv and feeling the pure fear and adrenalin that was pumping through my body. As dawn broke, one memory sticks clearly in my mind: sitting in the bar with Mark the barman and polishing off a crate of beer (20 beers..) while simultaneously infusing each other with bravado. We were both scared, but it was our immediate way with dealing with it…and it worked, apart from the hangover!

Another memory that still holds strong is my trek to the local ‘corner-shop’ down in Allenby Street (at this time, NOBODY was open except for the legendary sleaze shops that served the local prostitutes and their clients on the corner of Allenby and HaYarkon streets) to buy some munchies. After making my purchase, the haunting wail of the sirens suddenly punctuated the night air. I just ran for it, never so scared in all my life. My vulnerability hit home to me as my heart, and legs, raced. What if a chemical warhead landed (I had left my gas mask at the hostel)? Would I make it back to the hostel in time? … In short, I made it back OK, donned my gas mask, herded myself into the sealed room with the others and sat and waited for the ‘boom’ of a Scud hit.

They were scary days, those first few days of the Gulf War. I have so many memories; like the siren impersonators in the hostel who made everybody a nervous wreck as they mimicked the wail through the stairwell of the hostel so that the whole building heard. Or myself, Andy and Nigel playing cards during those nervy nights then running to the beach upon hearing the sirens (sure beat waiting for a “boom” to land on your head). I also remember my Mum calling me at the hostel, tearfully begging me to get the hell out of Tel Aviv. I soon did, heading up to the Golan to visit my mate Peter (still in Israel today, he’ll be featured in a couple more episodes!) on a moshav. I remember drinking lots of beer, milking calves, and long, dark nights watching lots of Midnight Caller. It was also very surreal hearing the tinny sirens of the moshav and watching the Scuds fly overhead on their way to Tel Aviv.

And where was Ofira during all these action-packed days? Well, she had been drafted just before the War kicked off, and the Israel army were looking after her during her basic training days. I was pretty sure they had a bunker or two to hide in, so was less worried about her. I didn’t get to see much of her during those first 3 weeks or so, but she always called me when she could, despite her attachment to a “special” unit and her signed declarations that she didn’t know any foreigners…

One night during the Gulf War we did actually get together and ended up in her home town (Petah Tikva) for the first time. Her mother, a legendary Jewish mother-in-law soon to feature in upcoming episodes, actually instigated this visit, the reasons for which I later found out why (she tried to encourage us to be together because she wanted to split us up…don’t worry, all will be revealed in the next episode or two!). We actually went to watch some TV across the road from her house at her uncle’s place because she was a little scared of her father’s possible reaction to my visit. But then, yes, you guessed it, sirennnnnnn! We raced back to her building and I got to meet Ofira’s father for the first time, in the bomb shelter, with gas masks on, fear blazing away in our eyes – probably more so in my eyes as he stared in my direction from behind his mask…

As we all know, Saddam couldn’t last the pace and the War was soon over. Despite some hair-raising experiences, my bond with Israel had tightened. However, things were about to change, as the Gulf War survivors in the hostel soon went their way and Tel Aviv moreorless returned to normal. And within a few days I had moved in, unofficially, with Ofira, and her family, and was just about to become a more permanent fixture in the Holy Land. Bye bye tourist. Hello illegal worker!

Next up: Settling in!