Memories of an Indian upbringing - The Keys to the Garden: Israeli Writing in the Middle East

Literary Review, Wntr, 1994 by Ilana Sugbaker, Ammiel Alcalay

SO IT TURNS OUT I'm an Israeli from India, that is, I was born in Israel but my parents came from India. In the eyes of many, I'm a "Yemenite"' because of the color. Once, years ago, when women soldiers used to hitchhike, this conversation repeated itself again and again:

"Yemenite?"

"No

"Persian, right? Moroccan??"

"Indian'"

"Indian? It doesn't show."

Or: "How come I didn't think of that?" My mother does invitations for an "Indian" evening in Jerusalem. Years after I had left, yearning for an Israeliness that could be taken for granted. Like every year, thousands of the Bene Yisrael from India gather in Jerusalem, to see and be seen, to experience the shards of a culture still existing in them, the civilization of India. It's very IN to talk about immigration, Ethiopians, tradition, Russians, Israeliness, Bukharians, and whether or not the news about a community of six million Jews in Kashmir is true or not. Would it be good if a couple of million Indians come to the country? Under the condition that they're Jews, of course, why not? It's interesting to see what the leaders will put together for the community's annual evening, an evening of color, Indian clothing, great food, art, music, and Indian dance. Other people, all eyes upon them, with "GOOD MANNERS," are not jostled in, to the women's clear, ringing laughter.

Crossing walls on the Tel Aviv-Moshav Masliah road. Preparing "Punjabi-daras." Tel Aviv summer, get your mount ready for winter. At the last minute, I prefer pants and a white shirt, something casual. At parties with friends, I'll arrive Indian, Oriental, or Arabic with a galabiyya or something else. That's fine. But for there, for an Indian evening, I hesitate. The deference, the scrupulous observation of Indian aesthetics, the agreement down to the length of the skirt, the pitch of the hips holding the wrap in place ... but with me, the train of the sari falls right down, helplessly plodding along my shoulder. I'm awkward, I don't have the right moves to grapple with clothes like that. But I love them so much, they're so beautiful to me. But not on me. It's better not to even get tangled up in all that.

We're on our way, my mother Abigail, my father Menahem, my sister Sarale, in a festive top embroidered in gold, my brother-in-law Asher, and me. Just before we get on the bus coming from Ramallah, my mother warns: "We'll probably have to wait two hours because they won't start on time."

I know, but nobody cares, everything's cool. In the back of the bus, a group of kids, boys and girls, start singing Indian songs from the movies. I'm compelled to look: kids with shaved heads and a lock of wild hair dipped in gel, curling down to the neck. Young girls with waves in the style of Shuki Zikri or some other famous Indian star (is that her name? I don't even follow Indian movies anymore). The finest fashions for the young, those whose parents were probably already born in Israel and work for the Aircraft Industry or at El Al. Amongst them, second generation immigrants sing songs in Hindustani.

The mid-fifties, my parents after the Gate of Ascent and before Moshav Masliah, at kibbutz Yagur. I'm a chocolate baby. Often, on walks through the paths of the kibbutz, in the area designated for immigrants from India, a comrade from the kibbutz would stop to express astonishment at the dark baby. I was a sabra, the pride of the family. These days, an unplanted sabra doesn't sound like much. The third of five children, but with the sole and special right to be a sabra, a real Israeli.

Binyanei Ha-Uma, in Jerusalem. In the parking lot, two women in white and violet saris rush towards the entrance. I'm struck by the colors. My mother says: "No taste." How come? Because you don't wear a sari that distance from the ankles, you cover them. And the wrap is too short for the shoulder. And the folds of the fan are vulgar. Got it? A different aesthetic, unfamiliar. She's right, my mother Abigail -- and the sari takes on a different meaning.

August '91, Binyanei Ha-Uma in Jerusalem. Huge signs greet us: "WELCOME TO THE ANNUAL GATHERING OF DESCENDANTS FROM INDIA IN ISRAEL."

"The Benei Yisrael aren't even mentioned."

"What?"

"Didn't you notice that they don't even mention the Benei Yisrael?"

"I wonder why."

"They want us to forget."

One assumption takes the place of another and it is no longer Benei Yisrael but "Jews of Indian Descent." And why should that really be important? We're all Israeli. Whether by chance or not, today marks India's day of Independence.

Indians came to Israel from a number of regions for, after all, India is half a continent, gigantic; to get from one city to another you can spend three days on a train, easily. Not like here. The Cochinis came from the south, darker than us, pattering another Indian, clanging along like silverware, quickly, quickly, quickly. Funny. Avi the Cochini from the preparatory course in Jerusalem, now a successful lawyer, says the Cochinis integrated into the country well. The Benei Yisrael, those who came from around Bombay (like me), were not absorbed as they should have been, and many went downhill. I'm surprised, I always thought differently; after all, there, in India, the Cochinis were mostly peasants while we had the businesses, the education, the respected professions, the posts in the government and the railroad . . . How did that happen? Different services during immigration? The nature of the ethnic group itself? Maybe he's not even right? There are also Baghdadi Indians, Jews from Iraq who lived in Bombay for several generations. We, the Benei Yisrael, helped them out at times to fulfill the commandments of the ransom of the first born or the bar mitzvah. There are no "kohens" in our community. We are Marathi speaking Benei Yisrael from the region of Bombay. The Benei Yisrael of the Bible are not the kind of Benei Yisrael that we are. We don't exist in any of the history books on the State of Israel. And there are even Indian Jews in Persia.