A quietly powerful story about a daughter's return to South Africa after the family has made aliyah, and the shifting roles between mother and child — where silence, regret, and tenderness reveal what words cannot.
But Shira kept putting
the phone call off. Lately, she felt a
distance between herself and her daughter.
Yael, who’d packed her
bags and returned to South Africa several years before, was falling out of
touch. “Not so much as an e-mail the
entire month,” Shira complained, frowning at Sam for smoking up the
apartment. “She can’t take a moment to
scribble a few words? “Here I am, all’s
well, will write soon!” We make the
effort!”
Everything she feared was happening.
Their f
When Yael left
But Yael, aged twenty-two, looked blinked hard. “Whoa, Mommy! It’ll be years before I marry. Don’t you think you’re overreacting? And by the way,” she’d said, whisking her
long blonde hair into a rough knot, “Who says I’m going to have children?”
Shira and Sam tried to talk Yael out of going, but all Yael said was, “Sorry
my oompahloompahs, a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do!”
What an irony, Shira surmised, after all the immigration difficulties
they’d had to overcome. And to return to
South Africa, of all places! White people had no future there! But, from the moment Yael set foot in Israel,
she’d made her opinions clear: Cape Town was her home with her dear brick house set in a pine-tree shaded garden
and her beloved ocean where the air was salty and smelled of seaweed. Where chocolate people with round faces said,
“Unjani, Missie? - How are you? Kubulele,
Missie - Well, thank you!”
Yael couldn’t understand how anyone in their right mind would move to
Israel. In the endless conversations they had on the subject she would exclaim:
“Don’t tell me we because Cape Town was dangerous. Mommy!” she’d guffaw. “Pu-lea-se! No one throws bombs at me when I
catch the bus in Sea Point or when I hang at a pub! Remember?
There was more than a
grain of truth in what Yael said, as Shira reminded herself when she and Sam had
visited the Cape a few months ago.
Strolling along the promenade of Sea Point, Table Mountain looked so rooted, so immovable. Framed by great boulders on which seagulls perched
and swooped, and colorful hang-gliders created rainbows in the sky, she asked
herself what their emigration, their aliyah had been all about. She’d looked at her husband sitting at a
table at the Pavilion café, reading the
Sunday papers, uncommonly relaxed, and she thought— maybe Yael was right and
they had been crazy.
Walking along the promenade between Seapoint and Three Anchor Bay was so
pleasant as Yael weaved among joggers and strollers and religious f
Had it been so bad, Shira
wondered. Certainly, their first years
had been hell for all the usual reasons involved in changing countries and
cultures. Yael’s bad attitude hadn’t
made it easier. She made no effort to
learn Hebrew or integrate, whiling away two years at the back of her class, and
titillating herself with Jilly Cooper novels.
Shira shivered when she remembered how confusing everything had been. Yael - with the uncanny knack teenagers have
for knowing when their parents don’t know the rules took every advantage. She came home from school at all morning
hours with stories about canceled lessons and teachers not arriving. She hung about in the streets until late at
night, while Shira and Sam walked from house to house like idiots, calling:
“Yael, Yaelly!” When confronted with
their frustration, she reminded them of their naive promise that Israeli
children enjoyed more freedom than did South African children.
One day, Yael’s teacher called them in for a conference. “At last!” Shira said cynically. She wondered whether the woman even knew that
Yael was in her class.
“Don’t tell me she’s going to
interview us here?” Shira nudged Sam, as they were invited to sit in a ‘staff-room’
filled with teachers eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. “— it’s like the central bus station!”
A young woman in her thirties introduced herself as Sarah, the
teacher. She sent a student to call Yael
and addressed them in Hebrew. Shira
said, “I’m sorry, my Hebrew’s not good. Could
you speak in English?”
“You don’t speak any Hebrew?” Sarah asked with some irritation. “Okay, ani a’daber le’at, le’at - I’ll
speak slowly.” She talked carefully,
enunciating each syllable as though Shira were an idiot, complaining about
Yael’s lack of interest in lessons. “She
never does homework!” Sarah said crossly, glaring at Yael. “She’s not
motivated.”
Shira, pink, embarrassed, barely able to understand, was puzzled by
Sarah’s tough attitude. Was this Sarah related
to Yael?
Sam steadied her with his hand.
He was the educator in the f
She murmured, “Sam, other children cope —Yael will, too.”
Looking at his daughter warily, “She
comes home at all hours of the day.
Surely children can’t come and go as they please?”
Sarah shrugged. With over a
thousand children in the school, how could they expect her to know where any
one child was.
Sam was determined to be conciliatory.
“What can I do to help?”. “If you
give me a copy of the syllabus, I’ll help her keep up. After all,” he said, trying to be jocular,
“History is history, nachon - right?
What’s the difference what language one speaks?”
But Sarah wasn’t having any of
it. She said Yael had to make the
effort. She didn’t intend to
‘infantilize’ her. “Yael is copping out!”
Suddenly, from across the room, a woman with a loud voice interrupted. “Do yourselves a favor; take your daughter to
the American school!”
Flushing hotly, Shira bristled. Was this a meeting at the Town Hall? She glared at the woman. “Excuse me_?”
A middle-aged teacher with a weary expression leaned forward. “Sorry ...
I just couldn’t listen to your frustration.”
Frowning, Shira said, “We didn’t come to Israel to put our daughter in
an American school.”
The woman nodded, “I understand. I’ve seen this before. But if you leave Yael here, forget her
getting an education. A new language…
new environment… new friends,” she shook her head, “an unwilling student. Very hard to transplant at this age. Don’t sacrifice her.”
Shira frowned. Was that what they
were doing? She couldn’t understand Yael’s
negativity. In South Africa, she’d
attended a Jewish Day school and learned Hebrew. How strange that her and Sam’s love for
Israel had rubbed off on her.
By this time, everyone was in a bad mood. Shira was ready to pack her bags and leave
the country. Yael said she wasn’t going
back to that school, and they couldn’t force her. Sam’s nostrils were pinched and white. They walked to the car in silence. Lighting a cigarette and sucking in the nicotine,
Sam said tersely, “Let’s go and see the American school.”
“Are you crazy?” Shira asked. “We
can’t afford it.”
Sam said, “I know. But let’s go,
anyway.”
Yael covered her head with her arms and buried it in her lap.
Within ten minutes, they’d arrived at a large modern building, set in
spacious grounds with tennis courts and basketball fields. A smart receptionist
with a friendly smile greeted them, “How may I help?”
Shira’s relief was palpable. Oh,
to be spoken to in a language she could understand. To be deferred to politely. To be gently shepherded by a woman who
offered them something to drink and commented. “You look positively
shell-shocked!”
Yael took her father’s hand and whispered, “
***
Sam brought Shira a cup of tea and sat down next to her. He took the book she was reading out of her
hands and brought her back to the present. “Phone her,” he said. “You know you must!” He picked up the
receiver,, “I’ll dial ...”
Shira shook her head.
“No, I’ll call.” She shivered: “I’m so
tense. This is ridiculous.”
“Don’t be silly,” Sam retorted. “I don’t know why you’re making such a
song and dance about it. He reached out his hand, “Pass me a bourek. They’re delicious.”
“Too fatty,” Shira said. “We
shouldn’t buy them.” She took a warm
salty cheese bourek and bit into it, “She’s so off-hand. She never calls
—.”
Sam made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue. “Ach, you’re unrealistic, Shira. Did you call your parents when you were that
age? If we don’t keep up the contact, Yael will
drift away. That’s not what we want! He stirred his coffee, “If only she’d made
Israeli friends. Maybe it was a mistake to
send her to the American school. Those
kids have no roots here. We should
have—.”
“Shoulda, woulda,
coulda,” Shira said bitterly, sipping her tea. “We did what we could. Nothing was ideal… bringing her at that age…
her resistance… her bad experiences. We
did our best. There were other teenagers;
not all of them left. Things happen…”
Yael had flourished in her new school, developing an interest in art and
music and discovering that there was something to be gained from studying. She’d made friends, played hockey — life almost
became easy. Then, as her graduation
approached, she announced that she intended to return to South Africa to
complete her education.
“Are you joking?” Shira exclaimed, her stomach turning to mush. “Leave
Yael retorted, “As an olah chadashah (new immigrant), I don’t
have to go into the army.
“Excuse me, Yael!” Shira insisted. “You live in
“Leave her be, Shira,” Sam said later. “She doesn’t have to.
Which led to the old argument about how Sam always gave in to Yael and
whether they should have made aliyah or not. It made Shira mad. She’d never
wanted to leave South Africa; her home, her f
But there had been other pressures. In the 1980s, international pressure against
the South African government’s policy of apartheid was at its zenith. Even Capetonians, living at the foot of their
beloved mountain, trembled when they heard the black chorus calling for “Amandla!
– freedom.” Black teenagers stood behind
trees, rolling huge boulders onto passing cars.
The nights rang with the sounds of gunfire and people scre
Every day, there were drive-by shootings and people getting ‘necklaced’
– with a burning tire left to smolder around the neck. On more than one occasion, Sam had had to
cancel the school bus because of the violence on the roads. He’d become convinced that the whites had no
future and he, as a Jewish educator, was irrelevant. “If I’m going to be caught in a war of
liberation, it might as well be our war – the Jewish war. If we’re ever going to do aliyah, we should
do it now.”
So when Yael announced she would leave the country before going into the
army, Shira was flummoxed. She said she
expected Yael to do her military duty, hoping it would be a new opportunity to
integrate into the Israeli chevre – her peer group. She argued, “Do your army service and then if,
you still want to leave, go with our blessing.”
Reluctantly, Yael signed up.
Lacking Hebrew literacy, she was assigned to the Military Police, which
was ridiculous. She couldn’t see herself giving tickets to soldiers who were inappropriately
dressed or AWOl. She found herself in an
untenable position: if she didn’t report her comrades, she got into trouble
with her superiors, and if she did, she was shunned. The only thing that made the situation bearable
was that she was given a Harley-Davidson motorbike to patrol the roads. Like a
comic-strip hero on a metal horse, gun in holster, hair stre
Everything might even have turned out well except for the Gulf War breaking
out.
Remembering the Gulf War made Shira shudder. It hadn’t even been
Israel’s war; they’d been dragged into the turmoil and singled out for Iraq’s
deadly missiles. A Scud landed in
Herzliya. Large chunks of metal landed in the main street of Ra’anana. Every time a Scud fell, there were frantic
phone calls from worried friends and f
When Yael was posted on guard duty at the kiryah, the army base
in central Tel Aviv, it was more than Shira could handle.
For the first time, she could do nothing to help her daughter. As day
after day, the scuds fell, her anxiety mounted.
Overcome with guilt at putting her daughter into such a dangerous
situation, Shira wouldn’t go into the safe room. “If Yael has to be outside and
take her chances, I can’t sit here in safety!”
On a crazy impulse, she
caught a bus to Tel Aviv, to see what kind of danger her daughter was in. “Have you lost your mind?” Sam demanded. “How will going to the kiryah help Yael?”
Shira didn’t know. She just had to go. She sat on the bus, tense as a coil, clinging
to her gas mask, and waited for the missile to hit. She was sorry she’d insisted that Yael go
into the army and couldn’t remember why it had been so important to her. In the city, she made her way past scowling
people doing essential shopping and hurrying home to the illusion of
safety. They carried gas masks in boxes
decorated in pinks and blues and polka dots.
At the kiryah, she found Yael, dressed in a white uniform. Her daughter stopped cars and searched them. When she saw her mother, she was bewildered.
“Mommy! What the —?”
“I had to come and see—!”
“Why… what?”
“I was scared something would happen to you.”
Yael gave her a look; “Duh, Ma – so what will you do? Protect me?”
Shira laughed a thin laugh. “I
don’t know. Whatever you do.”
Yael snickered. “That’s funny!”
“I know. I’m just nervous.”
“Well, Mommy, you wanted me to be a soldier!”
“Oh don’t say that Yaelly. Yes, okay.
I did, but that was before there was a war. Oh G-d. I don’t want
anything to happen to you.”
“Well, Ma!” Yael shrugged, her
mouth trembling. She scratched her head, looking at Shira quizzically: “Don’t
you think it’s kind of cracked… your coming here? Now?”
She shrugged, her hands flying up in consternation. “We shouldn’t even be in this fucked up
country. This whole
But it was too much for Shira.
The sight of her daughter bearing a firearm with live ammunition, the
sirens, the scuds and the horrific thought that the very air they breathed
might be poisoned —was too much for her.
All her fears and regrets bubbled to the surface. She cried because Sam hadn’t found the job he
hoped to get and kept saying their aliyah was a mistake. She cried for everything they had lost and
for the emotional cost of relocating in Israel. She cried for all the good
intentions that had come to nothing/ Everything was spinning out of
control. And she cried because Yael was
right; she didn’t know what she wanted. “I’m
sorry, Yaelly. Things happen—we make
decisions— it’s impossible to predict.
Maybe I am cracked. I’d never
forgive myself if anything would happen to you.”
They stood at the gate to the kiryah among the hooting cars,
sirens, army trucks carrying military hardware, and young men and women in
khaki shouting instructions into walkie-talkies. With Yael a head taller than she was, Shira
felt small and as frail as a child. She could remember Yael telling her to stop
being such an oompaloompah and assuring her that everything would be all
right. That she had a job to do. That Shira must go home. And that the kiryah was the safest
place to be.
They survived the war. Yael
emerged stronger but resolute: she’d had enough of
Within weeks of her discharge, she returned to Cape Town, enrolled at university, and found a place to stay.
“Things are different here,” she wrote,
“since the government’s changed. My
friends still live here; their parents didn’t leave. They still live in beautiful homes. Sometimes I drive past our old house and see
our swimming pool and the old pine tree, which — by the way— still waves in the
wind.
The years passed. The separation took its toll. At first, they spoke
daily, then weekly, then monthly; their conversations were few and tense. Sam became disillusioned about their aliya;
Shira was lonely. They visited Yael in
Sam nodded. “You two have a
complicated relationship.” He leaned
towards Shira and putting his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to
him. She turned her face to him sadly,
and he coaxed her, “Come.” Carrying the coffee cups and remaining boureka
to the kitchen, he said: “Yael is Yael.
The only person who can make things better is you.”
Shira took a deep breath. He was
right—perhaps she did expect too much.
Yael couldn’t fix what was eating her.
Why was everything so complicated?
Why was it so damned difficult to just pick up the phone to her daughter
and be nice?
She stared into space,
feeling her stomach contract. And when
the phone rang and Yael said sweetly, “Hello, my little Mommy,” she wanted to
cry.
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