Before continuing, I want to put one misconception aside. I do not claim to understand the Israeli ‘national pulse’ (itself a fiction) anymore than anyone else; I am also painfully aware that my views, which I would unsatisfactorily describe as Progressive Zionist, are held to be naïve by a majority of my countrymen. The narrative of an Israeli public who genuinely believed in the promise of the Oslo years, only to see it thrown back in their faces with the outbreak of the Second Intifada, is well known to me.

It is one thing to recognise this perception, however, and quite another to accept it uncritically, to equate the experience with the reality. The Israeli public is right to be angry about the wave of murderous violence unleashed with the Second Intifada, not to mention the constant barrage of rockets that came in response to the Disengagement. Our primary task, however, is to look closely at the behaviour of our own government, not in order to exculpate the other side for their crimes (this is not possible; murderous violence cannot be excused), but so that we can be sure that we have done everything we possibly can in order to ameliorate the difficult situation faced by our neighbours, a situation which is at least partly our responsibility, while at the same time ensuring that our security is paramount.

We have a good example of this from last week: The removal of a number of roadblocks and checkpoints in the West Bank (obstacles between Palestinian areas as opposed to obstacles separating Palestinian and Israeli population centres) was announced. Remember, we are often told that these checkpoints are absolutely vital for Israeli security. In the words of IsraeiNurse, “So I’m really sorry if it takes 4 hours to get from Schem [Nablus] to Ramallah, but that’s the price the Palestinians will have to pay until they renounce terror and we can be sure that no other schoolchild will have to suffer like my friend’s son did.” So what happened last week? Did the Palestinians renounce terror? Was the threat suddenly lessened? Or is the key word politics, namely the need to make a gesture to the Americans, pace ‘economic peace’, in order to try and stave off the unremitting White House pressure regarding the settlements. If the government was solely concerned about security, a hermetic separation barrier would have been built long ago between Israelis and Palestinians (note that this does not necessarily mean along the Green Line, although obviously far flung settlements would have had to have been evacuated), as opposed to the gobbling snake that currently weans its way through the West Bank. As for the checkpoints, like the old shtetl story of the goat, it seems we put up checkpoints as bargaining-chips, to be taken down in order to avoid making other ‘concessions’. In short, to justify them solely in terms of security is risible.

IsraeliNurse also suggests that I am not attuned enough to understand the full gamut of Israeli opinion. She is correct: I have only been here for three years (on July 10th; HPers in Zion are welcome to join me for a small celebration in the Vineyard), and am well aware that the ריח של ב”קום still trails behind me. She is right that I should walk humbly, yet I wonder if she is ready to take her own advice when it comes to Palestinian society. Both IsraeliNurse’s and PetraMB’s knowledge of Palestinians But  seems to have been drawn largely from the op-ed columns of the Jerusalem Post, and is entirely lacking in any sense of empathy for the situation faced by the Palestinian people (accompanied by the repetitive refrain about recognition of Israel as a Jewish State), a significant degree of which is the result of decisions we have taken over the past twenty years, in which, with few exceptions, we have consistently exploited our legitimate quest for security in order to take land from other people.

PetraMB argues that it is difficult for a young immigrant to get the “sense of Israeli identity that is shared by veterans/sabres for whom the country’s story is part of what shaped their lives and families and friends.” This is both false and irrelevant. I witness and admire it on a daily basis. What more would she have me do? As for the debate surrounding the ‘national pulse’, according to Petra “it’s a contest you lose by a devastating margin.” While it was never my intention to engage in a ‘contest’ over this issue, there is an interesting point to be made. Perhaps Petra and IsraeliNurse are not as confident in their Israeliness as they would have us believe, despite all their years here. At the outset I acknowledged that a majority of Israelis would not agree with my views, as is reflected by the consistent poor display by left-wing candidates in the polls. But this does not mean that the majority is right. I am an Israeli which means that I have the same rights in this country as someone who was born here (Gert and the other anti-Zionist vultures circling overhead; yes, I’m aware of the irony – we can discuss this another time). If I am considered to be less Israeli because I do not buy into the national pulse as offered to us by Petra and IsraeliNurse, then so be it. Thankfully, though, that hasn’t been my experience. I interact on a daily basis with Israelis who are perfectly aware of my views yet do not seek to patronise me. In fact, for some, my views even come as a pleasant surprise.

IsraeliNurse closes by arguing that a successful absorption is about casting off my ‘Londini’ experiences, “which…may just as well be another planet” and becoming an Israeli, by which she seems to mean falling into line with a monolithic worldview by which we’ve-done-our-best-but-they-still-want-to-throw-us-in-the-sea. I take issue with this. Like other multicultural societies, Israel is successful because it has people from all over the world bringing something new to the table. In my case, I happen to bring with me a relentless commitment to liberal democracy and an unblinking opposition to racial discrimination (Gert et al – see above). This give-and-take is a strength of Israeli society, and I would take issue with anyone who claims otherwise. I am a proud and confident Israeli and I believe in this country and I will not accept anyone attempting to deprecate my views for any reason other than their content.

But perhaps they are right. Perhaps in twenty years I will think differently. Given the current reality, though, I am not so convinced that it will be in the direction they foresee. As Nas says, “Much success to you/even if you wish me the opposite/sooner or later we’ll all see who the prophet is.” At a certain point, we have to agree to disagree.

The sagging bellies and the sour eyes didn’t put me off. Contempt was the stock response from the pen-pushers to my honest cries for help, yet it still didn’t sink in. I kept coming back for more, picking up my number 318 coupon (while the electronic notice-board told me we were up to 250) as if it was a lottery ticket and I really had a chance of winning.

Here, though, my memory fails me. I remember going to the transport ministry in Talpiot to sort out the pre-requisites for my driving test, a simple matter of driving round the block a few times to prove that my UK license wasn’t a mere fiction. For some reason, I never went back afterwards to pick up the actual license. This was the mistake.

I had little need to drive; the robust green Egged chariot soon became my vehicle of choice. A few months ago, though, I realised I didn’t have a physical driving license. Having found a job and a bachelor-pad, albeit of the cramped variety, my drive towards maturation told me I needed the card, the plastic, my photo digitally transcribed on its shiny surface like a royal seal.

There are no vehicle licensing authority offices in Tel Aviv; I had to choose between Holon and Jerusalem to check my status. I work next to Abu Ghosh, so Jerusalem was the more convenient option. There, in the all-consuming vastness of Binyan Clal, an angular and puffy ulcer that seems to have been designed with the sole aim of disorienting people, I was received immediately. “Why didn’t you pick up your driving license?” the clerk asked, without waiting for an answer. “Now you’ll have to do the theory test. And do it quickly, or you’ll have to do the practical again.”

Outside the snow was melting; I sludged through the slime pondering this new surprise, the theory test. I had done of those back in the old country, Wood Green to be exact, and it had been a cinch, a formality, impossible to fail unless – perhaps – you were high on cocaine. This, though, would be a very different exercise. In a country without speed cameras, where more people have died on the roads than in all the wars combined, the theory test has a difficult reputation. “Oh it’s quite hard,” someone told me. “I took it ten years ago, but you’re not allowed many mistakes, and the questions are far from simple.”

My displeasure at having to actually revise for the test was tempered by the discovery that I could do it at Tel Aviv’s central bus station. It’s intended use, I’m told, is as a bomb-shelter in case of the apocalypse, so it somewhat overshadowed Binyan Clal, but I’m there twice a day coming to and from work, so I know its corridors and clefts reasonably well.

One bright afternoon, then, I did a spot of reconnaissance. The – how shall I put it? – Theory Offices sit on the 5th floor, left at the escalators leading up to Egged. It’s a silent part of the building, a murky hum that’s at odds with the boom-boom trance that dominates elsewhere, and I admit I felt calm as I approached, the only one on the road, keen to find out more. I opened the door to the office speculatively, the latch making a great bang, eager to learn how to proceed.

Never mind that most of us could barely speak the language, never mind that the grinding army bureaucracy wasn’t geared up to effectively integrate us. We took it as an affront. Protest letters were dashed off to the newspapers, we got in touch with anyone we thought might give us a bit of protectsia; we tried to make a noise. At no point did we stop and think that the best way we could help the army (and by extension the country) would be to fill one of these menial positions.

I’ve been here for less than three years, so I’m in no position to preach the path to a successful aliyah, but I have been here long enough to know that the first thing an oleh should do is drastically revise his expectations. According to a recent survey, two years following their aliyah only 30 per cent of new olim are employed in a position similar to the one they held prior to aliyah. The survey applies to all olim, and it’s fair to assume that the figures would be slightly different for those from the west, but I think the general thrust of the data still holds, particularly when you take into account that 60 per cent of olim were employed in academic, technical or managerial positions abroad; while 25 per cent are employed in similar positions in Israel.

The most obvious reason for these figures is the language barrier. While there are plenty of English-speaking jobs in Israel, the single most important thing you can do when you make aliyah is learn the language. The more Hebrew you have, the more possibilities there are. But the language barrier alone doesn’t explain it. The Israeli job-market is obviously much smaller than its counterparts in Britain and the United States. It’s also far more parochial. Qualifications that might open doors in London don’t necessarily count for anything in Tel Aviv. A strong background in the humanities, for example, isn’t going to help like it might in the UK, where it’s been understood (at least until very recently) that going off and studying a subject like History or Literature for a few years before starting a profession is a worthwhile exercise. In Israel, there’s a far greater emphasis on experience-based qualifications.

What about in the social sphere? According to the survey, two years after their aliyah only 14 per cent of olim have frequent contact with Israelis, by which I assume the survey means sabras. In addition, 66 per cent of a new oleh’s friends are mainly or only new olim. Again, a lot of olim talk the talk about only speaking in Hebrew and only hanging out with the natives, but this is rarely realistic. Birds of a feather flock together, and there’s no reason to think that immigrants to Israel would be any different. My personal experiences reflect the survey: I’d say about 65 per cent of my mates here are Olim, with the remainder a combination of Anglo-Sabras or Sabra-Sabras. I have two or three friends I speak with solely in Hebrew, the rest I speak with either in English or some combination of the two.

The survey doesn’t examine romantic issues, which is a shame, as Sexual Zionism is an under-rated area of study. The classic cliché of aliyah discourse is that the key to a successful absorption is to find a sabra partner. It’s also supposed to be the easiest way to learn the language. From my brief romantic entanglements with Israeli girls, I’ve found the opposite to be the case. It’s one thing to be able to have a day-to-day conversation in Hebrew, quite another to seduce in it. Despite your best efforts, your conversations will inevitably take place in English, and your Hebrew will take another battering as a result. And that’s before we even get onto the issue of ‘cultural differences’.

Of course, the survey and my responses to it are based on a number of questionable assumptions, particularly regarding the importance of a career etc. But the findings still hold even if professional development isn’t the most important thing in your life. The point is that the survey shouldn’t worry us too much. Of course it’s important to implement projects that help sabras and olim to develop friendships. But integration of immigrants normally takes a generation or two, and I don’t think anyone should get too worried if the process isn’t instantaneous.