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Travel Piece by Ida Nasatir
Letter from Israel, by Ida Nasatir, April
27, 1951
April 28, 1951—Ida Nasatir, "A
Letter from Israel," Southwestern Jewish Press, page 5: Any Jew with
any Jewish consciousness who finds himself abroad during the month of April
packs a bag and heads for the land he has read and heard so much about—Israel.
For what Jew does not year to celebrate the exodus of his people from Egypt, the
oldest and most significant of Jewish holidays, the one most fondly remembered,
in Israel? One need not be in this brave little country long to come to
know that it is a wonderful place. To the refugee from Poland, to
the businessman from New York, to the stenographer from South Bend, to the
professor from San Francisco—to these and to countless others—to the
million, three hundred thousand already living in the country—Israel means so
much, it has so many faces. It means the great seaport of Haifa, the place of
disembarkment. Haifa, with a color and flavor all its own, a city of homes
and home-loving people who do not frequent cafes as the Tel Avivians do, a city
where the tempo of life is slow and even, and where men have time to smoke
cigars rather than the fast smoking cigarettes; where there are few theatres and
concert halls, where women where silk scarfs over their heads, which drop over
their faces when the sun gets blisteringly hot, where the men are swarthy brown,
and where the climate is such that year round summer resort attractions are
offered. Haifa, which is distinguished for its oil refineries and
industrial suburbs, its cement quarries and Shemen oil, but above all, is know
for its Mount Carmel, the finest mountain in all the country, which towers
majestically over the city, the same mountain from which the prophet Elijah once
stood and thundered his denunciation of men who were too worldly wise. It
means Tel aviv, the youngest city (42 years old) of its size in the world,
almost 100 percent Jewish community. Tel Aviv with its attractive beach, its
hotels, its gardens and parks, its innumerable cafes, its concert halls and
lecture meetings, its streets called "Achad-Haam," "Ben Yehuda,"
"Shlomo Hamelech," Yehuda Halevi," "Hertzl" and "Rothschil
Blvd." Walk down the street called Allenby Road, and all the faces of
the world seem to be there. Could that woman with the slkee blond hair and
trim figure be Jewish? That man. Impossible! Such broad
cheekbones, the square set chin. Dutch, of course. That red cap—could his
Roman ancestors have spoken Yiddish? That chic beret—French, certainly.
All kinds of people in Tel Aviv—Polish, Russian, Greek, Italian, English,
German, French, Norwegian and they are all Jewish! From out of this mass
of faces, these nationally typed faces, each has a history, each is an Israeli.
Tel Aviv, the nearest thing to an American city, where you see signs reading
"Ice Cream American Style," with the picture of an abundantly filled
ice-cream cone, and where you wee the marquis of the Cinema theatre reading:
"Shalom Chaver Chips," the Hebrew way of saying: "Goodbye Mr.
Chips." It means Ramat Gan, the industrial city on the edge of Tel
Aviv. It means Jerusaelm—the Eternal City. But who can describe Jerusalem so
that some faint glimmer of her beauty, her mystery, her utter fascination may
pierce through the fog of dull, grey words? She is of all ages and for all
ages, the link between the past and the present.