Meira of Hadera - My Initiation

I am returning to Sydney to celebrate my parent's fiftieth wedding anniversary, but Meira didn't know that. All she knew was that I had lost my Israeli travel document (a temporary passport issued to Orlim who leave the country before one year). She looked down at me disapprovingly through the glass screen between us and waited for an explanation I did not have. The implication was clear. Yes, of course I understand that in a country like Israel, where security is of primary concern, the loss of such a document is no small matter. I did not need Meira to tell me that, though she obviously felt that I did. "It's very expensive to replace" she said, her eyes awaiting some kind of grovelling apology for my very existence. "It's 500 shekels". "Wow, that is expensive" I said adding to my growing debt-guilt, "but what can I do, I've booked my ticket, I'm leaving in three weeks."

"Go over there and get a letter from that girl to say you've lost it" she commanded. I scurried across the office, dodging a blind Arab man holding on to a pretty young Arab woman wearing an elegant black scarf. 'Slicha' I said half smiling and wondering at the same time if perhaps my travel document hadn't fallen into the hands of a mad Jihadist plastic surgeon with a tribe of daughters willing to look just like me for long enough to complete some massively destructive mission.

I returned to Meira with my tail between my legs and handed her the paper. She handed it back. "Fill it in" she said. I looked at the page full of Hebrew and I looked back at her. She knew damn well that I was far from capable of filling out this form. At my request we were speaking in English. She turned the snobby corners of her mouth up, grabbed the form back, made a personal call on her mobile phone and filled out the form while continuing a previous conversation with her co-workers behind the counter at the same time.

This place reminded me of the Road and Traffic Authority in Bondi Junction, with its ticket system and windowed counter. I missed the rough faced Aussie women with whom you could always share a personal story, and open up a conversation just by admitting you were human. Meira wasn't human though. She was one of those beautifully groomed Tel-Aviv women, streaked blond hair cut sharply against her chiseled face. She wore a large diamond studded eternity ring on her stubby manicured fingers, a high maintenance girl, clearly too good to be working an office job at the Misrad Hapnima in Hadera. There was no breaking the ice with this one.

I gave her my Australian passport, my Israeli ID, my Tudat Orlah , I gave her my husband's Israeli credit card. "Who's Gabi ?" she asked suspiciously. My husband I said, calling him over to identify his legitimacy. Where's his ID? she asked rudely. I was starting to come undone. I pointed to my ID, which has his name and number on it, she continued stapling and folding, stamping and writing.

I thought about my dad and I started to cry. I don't know why but I did. She neither noticed nor cared and by the time she handed me back my card, and told me it would arrive in the post within two weeks, I had completely fallen apart. Meira had managed without actually saying anything to completely annihilate me. I had been initiated.

This is the Israel I had heard so much about, this is the beurocratic nightmare, the scorpionic Sabra of which I had been warned. Up until now, I had been spared. I left the office in tears and cried all the way home. I still don’t know why I was so intimidated by this woman, maybe it was the full moon or maybe I'm just terribly homesick, or maybe that's what Meira does to make her feel better about herself.

I could wipe Meira out in a psycho-spiritual battle in a flash. I have squatted down and birthed five times, I have lived in a rain-forest. I have sat in tribal circles with powerful women, manifesting healing and manipulating energy. I have immigrated. I am a strong woman, a powerful being, capable of drawing powerful forces to my aid. By comparison Meira is a child, an un-evolved being, caught in the superficiality of her unprocessed life. Life will process her, it always does. I hope it does so gently so she grows to see that her external beauty will only ever be a reflection of her inner essence.