His Pen Was His Sword

 My father was a passionate Zionist. In his youth, he joined South Africa’s Zionist Youth Movement—a term that encompassed a spectrum of Jewish youth groups varying in religiosity and socialist commitment.

While my mother wholeheartedly embraced Hashomer Hatzair—a rigorously socialist movement—my father occupied a more moderate position. An intellectual Zionist with deep knowledge of the era’s influential thinkers, he nonetheless never aligned himself with that particular movement.

Though both were committed to aliyah, practical pressures—earning a living and raising a family—took precedence after their marriage. Ultimately, they emigrated only in their retirement years, a delay that profoundly disappointed my father. The horrors of the Shoah and the Nazi campaign to exterminate the Jews had left him determined never to allow such a tragedy to recur. For him, the only remedy was for the Jewish people to seize control of their destiny by establishing their own state and a means to defend it.

While postponing aliyah, they celebrated the declaration of the State of Israel in 1948, with Ben Gurion as its first Prime Minister. Their fervent Zionism endured throughout their lives. Despite neither being devoutly religious, every celebration was marked by the heartfelt recitation of “Next year in Jerusalem.”

They devoted themselves to Jewish causes. My father became a masterful letter-writer, meticulously crafting direct mail appeals to raise funds for Israel. He tracked the nation’s progress by subscribing to the Jerusalem Post’s overseas edition and even studied Hebrew in preparation for his eventual move. During times of conflict, both he and my mother stayed glued to the radio—and later television—each update stirring anxiety over their beloved country’s fate.

When they finally made aliyah, they were in their seventies.  It took a dramatic, urgent push to materialize.

Here’s how it unfolded: In response to stringent sanctions aimed at dismantling South Africa’s Apartheid regime, authorities imposed strict limits on foreign currency movement—around $30,000 for many years. This sum was barely sufficient for a family vacation, let alone funding immigration. Resourceful Jews found ways to transfer larger funds illicitly, though at high costs. Individuals known as “shleppers” charged exorbitant fees for the risky service, sometimes defrauding vulnerable people in the process. Amid forecasts of violent confrontations between oppressed blacks and white oppressors, many sought to flee, sparking a massive brain drain that robbed the country of its skilled citizens.

Quietly, my father funneled money to Israel, maintaining a secret bank account as his nest egg for old age. Although these funds amounted to a considerable sum in South African rands, rampant devaluation and fees of 15–20% eroded their value. Still, he persisted against all odds.

Then, one fateful night in 1993, he called me in the dead of night: “Don’t ask questions, just listen.” An icy fear gripped me as he continued, “Call me from your neighbor, at this number,” dictating contact details with an urgency I had never heard before. His words were brief and ominous: do not speak, mention no names.

He explained that someone had denounced him to the police. A man named Geldenhuys had accused him of a serious offense, and an arrest warrant was imminent. Strangely, though not detained, my father understood the clear warning: it was time to flee South Africa—and quickly. With unwavering resolve, he booked tickets for my mother and himself, promising to call me once they landed in Israel.

I was overwhelmed by terror and uncertainty: Would they be jailed? How could they leave amid a war? The fact that my father had avoided calling our home for fear of the call being traced only deepened my alarm. It was like living a real-life thriller—only these were my parents.

My worry extended to his state of mind. I knew he kept a revolver and feared that, if cornered by the police, he might choose suicide over capture. Equally, my heart ached for my mother, already sliding toward dementia.

Soon after, my father called from Ben Gurion Airport to announce their safe landing and that a taxi ride awaited them. He later related that at Jan Smuts Airport, a note had flagged their names indicating that the authorities wanted to be alerted to any departure attempt, but the ticket officer chose discretion, allowing them to board without incident. On arrival, my father was ruffled, anxious, exhausted, and yet relieved, while my mother appeared oddly detached—unaware of how narrowly they had escaped detention back home.

Fortuitously, a furnished apartment in my building became available for a short-term lease, and we arranged for them to settle in. Fifty years after their intended aliyah, they were finally living in the cherished land of Israel.

For my father, every day in Israel was an adventure. During his “honeymoon” phase, he reveled in every facet of the country—the vibrant shops, the bustling buses, and even the unpretentious box-like buildings hastily erected to accommodate waves of new immigrants. He marveled at the country’s progress and the vibrant mix of people from all backgrounds, often exclaiming in wonder, “Can this man be Jewish?” when he encountered individuals who defied the Ashkenazi stereotype he had known all his life.

In contrast, my mother became increasingly childlike and distant. Once celebrated in South Africa as an exceptional cook, engaging entertainer, and a woman with a keen wit and strong opinions, she now struggled even to hold a conversation. Her advancing dementia, compounded by severe hearing loss that rendered her hearing aids ineffective, left her overwhelmed in everyday situations, like at the supermarket, where she impulsively tossed items into her trolley. Since arriving in Israel, she had forsaken all household tasks, and my father soon became her full-time caregiver.

Initially, friends visited regularly, but they soon grew uncomfortable when my mother, detached from conversation, would vanish into her bedroom after only a few awkward minutes. Gradually, her old friends stopped coming around.

My father had long hoped that his South African business would continue to operate after his aliyah, providing him with a steady income akin to a pension. An accomplished copywriter, he imagined working remotely and even securing opportunities in Israel.

Alas, none of his plans materialized. Without his guiding hand, the business faltered amid a struggling economy and was eventually sold at an extremely undervalued price, crushing the long-held hope of a pension. To make matters worse, his most trusted employee turned out to be a thief, amassing a secret nest egg at my father’s expense. Even the man who bought his prized car deceitfully paid with counterfeit dollars—a deception only uncovered at the bank. Trust betrayed after trust left him heartbroken.

Furthermore, no suitable work awaited him in Israel. The local market, favoring Hebrew and its own methods for direct mail (his area of expertise), proved inhospitable to his talents. With limited mobility and energy, my father found himself continually thwarted by one setback after another. This was the harsh reality he faced at 73 when he finally made aliyah.

Making the journey at an old age with a sick, dependent wife was a hazardous adventure, yet he persevered for 25 years in Israel, with me faithfully by his side. Determined to contribute to Israel and the Jewish people, he transformed his formidable writing talent into advocacy. Had he come earlier, he might have bolstered the economy. Instead, he became a tireless Israel advocate, composing articles, letters, and engaging passionately whenever the country was misrepresented. He even taught himself computer skills, masterfully building and using recipient lists, and launched his blog, IsraelDefender, where he published nearly 100 articles—many republished on behalf of their authors.

In Israel, my father truly became a warrior—his pen served as his indomitable sword.