What qualifies someone as an olah chadasha? Last week I suggested it might involve paperwork, perseverance, and a teudat olah (that still hasn’t materialized). This week, I’d like to propose another Israeliness barometer: whether or not your husband has to make your phone calls for you.

The conversation started at a shabbat dinner with another young oleh couple. The husbands, both born in Israel to English-speaking parents, were lamenting the tragic reality that their wives, fully grown, college-educated American women, are about as coherent in Hebrew as the UN’s 14th draft of a motion against Israel. The wives, meanwhile, were shooting back that every time we attempt to speak Hebrew, our husbands begin responding the way one might respond to a brave but confused toddler, before inevitably switching to English.

I would consider myself an ambitious professional. A high achiever. The type who hasn’t accepted a grade under an A since middle school, and who has been carefully using her wedding money to curate a home that could plausibly appear on the front cover of Homes & Gardens. When I work hard, I am generally a good learner. When I actually face my inability to keep up in this language it is humiliating and frankly undignified.

My husband, ever practical, consoles me by promising that I don’t really need to learn Hebrew anyway. “Everyone speaks English here,” he said. “You work in English. You’re fine. 

On paper, he’s not wrong. I live in Jerusalem. I work and learn in English. I can order coffee and ask for directions. I have survived three years here on what I generously call conversational Heblish. In my lazier moments I reassure myself: why should I master seven binyanim when my email inbox is much more important? Is it really essential that I conjugate verbs in multiple tenses when my husband is perfectly capable of making my phone call instead? Do I need to master a language that sounds like throat yoga?

This week I had a morning of Important Administrative Phone Calls, during which (not for the first time) the “everyone speaks English anyway” philosophy began to look wobbly.

I began with trying to resolve my still-ongoing missing document fiasco from last week’s Misrad Hapnim saga. I dialed four different organizations and a lawyer. I called Nefesh B’Nefesh. I pressed numbers, waited on hold, and then confidently announced, “Shalom, ani rotza…” before completely freezing after hearing a syllable of Hebrew, and immediately handing the phone to my husband, like I was surrendering a live grenade to someone who actually knew how to diffuse it. 

Immediately after (partially) resolving that situation, my former landlord called, attempting to retroactively apply an olah tax discount to an apartment I haven’t lived in since before I got married. I answered. I identified the caller. Progress. Twelve seconds later, of course the phone was in my husband’s hand again.

Lastly, I attempted to book a very urgent nail appointment via phone. I dialed and listened to the menu. I pressed what I believed to be the correct number. Guess what? When automated Hebrew greeted me on the other end, I smiled at absolutely no one, and once again handed over the phone.

So when I say I am “making phone calls” and “managing my own life,” is that entirely accurate? Technically, yes. I found the numbers. I pressed the digits. I initiated the contact. But who is actually conducting the conversation? Clarifying and scheduling and explaining it all back to me afterward? My Hebrew-speaking husband. And it is exactly as annoying for him, and embarrassing for me, as it sounds.

This, I would argue, is Exhibit A in favor of olot chadashot needing to learn Hebrew. But there is a second case, and it is harder to admit.

Learning Hebrew as an adult is humbling in a way that is difficult to overstate. It is speaking in fragments and conjugating verbs incorrectly with great confidence when you are used to being praised for your eloquence and vocabulary. It is watching your husband try not to die of laughter when you accidentally say “I am the refrigerator” instead of “I am cold.” It is trying, and failing, and then momentarily giving up, while someone who loves you most begins answering on your behalf because it’s simply more efficient.

In truth, knowing Hebrew isn’t just about navigating bureaucracy and bank transfers. It is the language of prayer, of Torah, of words that have been spoken in this land for thousands of years. And it is the language in which most people here express their identity.

If I am building a life here, learning the language cannot only be about practicality. It is about dignity. Independence. About being able to fully bring out my personality in a new country instead of outsourcing it, or only displaying it to my fellow anglos.

Unfortunately, and somewhat inconveniently, I think that means I actually have to learn Hebrew.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)