In Israel people on all sides of the political spectrum remind me frequently that I am not “Israeli.” But in Spain, my first stop out of the Holy Land, right off the bat, my friend Laura introduces me to her friend, “This is Shiri, she’s from Israel…” I smiled and corrected her, “I’m not really Israeli, we met there.” This exchange happened again and again that night and the following day, as I met one friend after another. Finally, Laura looked at me, “Shiri, you are American. But you are Israeli.”
My initial bristling at being identified as Israeli pinpoints the actors at play within my own personal arena of identity politics. While I have been going to Israel my whole life, it was only this year that the receptionist at the Haifa Ministry of the Interior refused to stamp my traveler’s visa, kindly reminded me that I have been a citizen since leaving my mother’s womb, and set the appointment for me to get a light blue ID card. Now, I can vote, I have a bank account, a phone plan, an Israeli passport, am categorized as a toshevet choseret-returning citizen, and I suspect that the officials in the Ministry of the Interior believe I am staying forever.
But it’s taken me a while to internalize that my ID card is not a toy from a playset and I’m not playing pretend.
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