November 2000, I’m at the arrival hall at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. My brother and I have just got off a ten-hour flight from Israel on our way to join the rest of my family, who had arrived 2 weeks earlier, for my eldest brother’s wedding. We are arriving just two days before the wedding, just enough time to get fitted for a tuxedo. An American wedding and all that comes with it is a foreign concept to me, and quite honestly, I was dreading it. We are both in the middle of our compulsory army service and would rather be back on base with our comrades. The army had given us special limited leave, and a permit to leave the country to attend the wedding in the US.
This is the first time we are traveling to the US since our family made Aliyah, immigration to the state of Israel, in 1986. Then I was seven years old, and now, returning for the wedding, I am 21. Everything felt new and different. The lines to go through passport control were so organized, and everyone waited patiently for their turn. On the floor was a yellow line that no one passed until those in front were finished at the booth and walked away. This was something we have never seen before, for lines and queues in Israel are recommendations and social points are awarded to people who find their way around them. This is not a cliche, as I mentioned, at this time we were in our army service, and even our combat army training was no help trying to get on a bus to and from the base in Israel.
We followed our parents’ instructions and got into the passport line for American citizens, as we hold citizenship in both Israel and America. Our turn came, and we approach the booth, handing our passports to the officer inside. He opens the first page, takes a glimpse at the picture, and lifts his eyes to verify a match. After scanning our documents, we are handed back our passports as the officer offers us the words “Welcome home boys”. It was one of the strangest moments I have ever experienced, and some crazy thoughts ran through my head, primarily that I was not home.
Yes, I was born in the US, lived there until I was 7, and still had a lot of family there. But my home, as I saw it, was Israel. Luckily there was a long line behind us, and a connecting flight to Baltimore ahead of us, which encouraged me to say thank you and move on. But the macho Israeli soldier inside me wanted to respond with something like, “What do you mean, home? This isn’t my home, my home is Israel”.
By this time, I had been serving in the army for two years. I was trained as a combat infantry soldier and spent my first operational tour on the western part of the Israeli – Lebanon border, going in and out of the security zone. These were tough times and Israel was doing everything to fight Hezbollah and to keep them away from our borders. Following the commanders’ course, I found myself once again inside the security zone, a commander of an infantry squad on an artillery base, preparing for Israel’s withdrawal from the area. In May 2000, after sleepless nights, we packed up ourselves, blew up the outpost, and headed back to Israel. And now, in November 2000, I was working on my unit’s training base, training the next recruits. As violence in the West Bank was heating up, we were on the verge of a very bloody intifada… When hearing the words “Welcome home boys”, I felt as far away from home physically and emotionally as a person can be.
During my two weeks in the US in addition to attending my brother’s wedding, we had the opportunity to meet family, spend time with our parent’s friends and community, and do a bit of genuine American shopping and sightseeing. My brother and I then ventured off to New York City for a couple of days before heading home to Israel.
New York was unbelievable. We walked the streets in the cold and took the famous subway we only knew about on TV. We walked with our heads up, taking in the tall buildings and skyscrapers in great wonder, amazement, and awe, as we have yet to have something like this in Israel. We saw two shows on Broadway, stood at night on the top balcony of the Empire State building, and took the elevator to the top floor of the World Trade Center’s twin towers. I remember the magnificent view and feeling like I was standing on top of the world. A few days later, it was time to leave the US and return to our true home- back to the army base, back to our comrades and soldiers, and back to the responsibility to keep Israel safe.
Fast forward one year to September 2001. I was then serving on a base on the border between Israel and Lebanon with my soldiers. Oddly enough, I had somehow ended up back on the same base I had been posted to during my first tour as a combat soldier, just weeks before my discharge from the Army. The base is a big concrete mountain, and all the rooms are in the underground bomb shelter. Given that this was close to the end of my service, and not much was required of me, I had plenty of time to catch up on the 3rd book of Harry Potter which was recently released in Hebrew. Our room had a television, one of the small but large ones, wired with an improvised antenna comprised of metal hangers and other odds and ends to make it long enough to provide us with at least some reception.
It was there, lying on my bed reading Harry Potter, with the TV providing more than just black and white dots for once, that the footage of two planes flying into the World Trade Center came through, followed by the scary sight of the buildings falling one after the other. Our little room became the outlet to the world, with almost everyone on base coming by to watch for themselves before returning to their mission in total shock.
It hit me, just like everybody else in the world. As we watched, I thought back to the moment one year earlier when I stood on top of the World Trade Center. I thought of that officer from the US border control at JFK who greeted us with “Welcome home boys.” Because now, a year later, as I sat watching this attack on New York City play out on my small tv screen with my Israeli brothers-in-arms, on the border of Lebanon so far away from the US, I had the strange feeling that this attack was an attack on my home.
Reflecting now, I understand better this feeling of “home” I feel towards the US is not simply because I hold a US passport, pay US taxes, or even because I have family living there. Rather, it is because every time I visit the US there are so many people who are happy to see me, extend their hospitality, and welcome me home. Starting with the border control officer.
