 It seemed like an optical illusion: Heading toward me was a wave of about 40 young men, their chests bare, muscles exposed, running in unison. As I smiled to myself, wondering if I had hit that wall when you're supposed to start hallucinating, someone running beside me shouted out, "It's the Shayetet [Navy Commando]." Probably not something you'd see, I thought to myself, running down the street in St. John's Wood.
The 21.1 kilometres of the Tel Aviv half-marathon gave me a lot of time to think. A little over two hours, to be precise, and I used a lot of it to contemplate my coming of age in Israel. It was November 23, exactly 13 years to the day since I had made aliyah. In the words of psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott, in times of stress, our mind sometimes disconnects from our body and we stay in the realm of thought. Probably quite sensibly, my mind decided that this was a time to ignore what was going on in my body. So, I thought.
There were several amazing aspects to the experience. There were the moments when my still-beating Zionist heart began to murmur: Look at all these Jews running! It felt incredible to be engulfed by so many of my fellow people running together (just over 1,700 completed the run). They are nearly all Jews. Here was another sign that we had become a normal nation.
Look at the Israelis running! The soldiers, the families running together, the friends with a shared history of 40 years of supporting each other. There was also the camaraderie from those who offered support: The family that handed me a bottle of water after their father, who was just ahead of me, had taken a gulp and moved on. The smiles and cheers from passersby and the encouragement of fellow runners.
My childish Zionist glee, however, was soon dashed by those Israeli shortcomings we know oh so well: the fact that the water promised at kilometer 12 ran out before all the runners (including me) had passed: This meant that for the slower runners, there was no water to be found between the 7 and 15 kilometer points (at the entrance to Hayarkon Park). Those not gifted with speed found that the medals promised to everyone who completed the race had also run out by the time we reached the end. Especially for those of us for whom running 21 km is not something to be taken for granted, this testament to our bravery and foolishness was something we were looking forward to. Then, back at the Hadar Yosef Stadium (the start and finish point) we found that the people appointed by the race organizers to guard our valuables while we ran were no longer on the job. If lucky, we found our car keys and mobile phones.
I felt disappointed and let down. Why did it have to be this way? Why did I have to encounter that familiar Israeli attitude of "yihiye beseder": Don't worry about the details, everything will work out okay anyway? In his work on immigration and identity, psychoanalyst Salman Akhtar, himself a migrant to the US, discusses the way in which the newcomer, in coping with the overwhelming challenge of cultural transition, simplifies his or her experience through the use of the defense mechanism of "splitting": turning the world into dichotomies of good and bad. Though considered a primitive defense, splitting protects the individual's self, when s/he cannot cope otherwise. It is an explanation for the immigrant tendency to complain about how "back home" things work so much better, are so much cleaner and more efficient, and the like, while "here," things just aren't the way they should be. Instead of being able to simultaneously see the good and bad in both Israel and our birthplace, we imagine one country as "all good" and the other as "all bad." It is only later, after enough positive experiences in the new country, that we can really grasp that the same place we love is the one that at times we hate and that drives us mad (a claim confirmed by the recent research I and my colleagues at Bar-Ilan University have carried out).
At km. 7, my Zionist heart pumped at the thought of all those Jews running; at 12, I wanted to scream over the lack of water; a kilometer later, I felt gratitude to the strangers who offered me water; at km. 18, I was encouraged by the warm smile of a woman running next to me; and as I crossed the finish line at kilometer 21, I felt both exhilarated by my achievement and also disappointed that I had no medal to show for it. The good turned sour and then became sweet again.
Now, a week later, looking back, the two blend together in what was overall a worthwhile and exhilarating experience. Much like my aliyah. I have lived here for 13 years now and, like so many others, am acutely aware that the same place I love is the place that at times drives me to tears and frustration. I finished my first half-marathon with the desire to do another - or maybe even the full 42 kilometers. One aliyah, however, is probably enough.
Dr Sophie Walsh is a former leader of RSY-Netzer and is now a clinical psychologist. She is a researcher and lecturer in the field of immigration at Bar-Ilan University This article previously appeared in Haaretz English Edition.
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