Letter from Israel
Getting a Hold on Hebrew
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Once you walk into an ulpan, there's no going back.
I was in the third grade when I fell in love for the first time. It was Madame Bonafante who introduced me. Every Wednesday, the tall matresse would arrive in an elegant dress and high heels to teach the class how to say "merci beaucoup." It usually sounded more like "mercy bocups" tinged with a Southern drawl, but Madame Bonafante was tireless.
Tall and slim with manicured nails and straight brown hair that fell into a fashionable bob, she always looked perfect. I idolized her. To my 10-year-old eyes, she was the epitome of an attractive, successful woman, and she spoke the most beautiful language I had ever heard. I not only fell head over heels for French, but I realized that not everyone speaks English. It dawned on me then that learning to converse in another tongue could be a useful skill.
Madame Bonafante informed my parents that I was gifted with language. It was easy for me to repeat her words with great accuracy. She advocated as much exposure to the language as possible, which was a great part of the argument, many years later, to extend my study-abroad semester in Aix-en-Provence to an entire year.
And the day I met my future Israeli husband, I remember that one of the things I liked about him was his ability to speak Hebrew, a language I had little exposure to as a child. When we decided to spend some time together in Israel, it was obvious that I would learn Hebrew, just as my French had improved from mediocre to quasi-native after moving to France after graduation. The difference was that instead of learning some basics as a child, I was heading in tabula rasa as an adult. My slate was very blank.
I tried to enroll in the ulpan (Hebrew language school for new immigrants, foreign workers and just about anyone else who wants to learn) for weeks, but no one was present during the Jewish New Year's holidays. Getting anyone to answer my questions about class times, rooms, teachers, materials and any other practical information was impossible.
Today, I accept this as part of life when any Israeli government office is involved. A good friend told me recently that you should expect to take three trips to anything that is run by the government. On the first visit, you find the place and ask what paperwork is needed. The second trip is to bring the said necessary paperwork and be rudely informed that you are missing at least half of the required documents; the third time is actually to accomplish something.
So by my third visit to the ulpan, I actually did manage to get something done. A secretary pointed me in the direction of the beginner Hebrew classroom. "But they have already started," she warned. "You will be behind."
Rivka, the teacher, greeted me with a welcoming tone. "Shalom, er korim lach? (Hi, what's your name?)" she asked. I had no idea what she was saying, and I thought that I must have entered the advanced class by mistake.
"You lost me after shalom," I told her, starting to back into the hallway. "I must be in the wrong room."
"Lo lo lo," she said, wagging a purple-coated fingernail, which I knew meant "you aren't going anywhere."
"Once you enter this room," said Rivka, lowering her voice to a whisper to speak in forbidden English, "you must only use Hebrew."
My vocabulary at that time consisted of six words: shalom, ken, lo, ma nish, ma and tov. I also knew that Hebrew was "backward" and that every conversation I heard sounded like an argument because of the guttural, harsh sounds.
French, with the same alphabet as English, Latin roots and its shared vocabulary, was of no help. Apart from applying masculine and feminine genders to nouns, which Hebrew also does, my knowledge of French was useless.
The great thing about Hebrew is that it is the only once-dead language in the world to have been successfully revived, thanks in large part to Theodore Herzl and many hardworking Zionists. Perhaps partially because of its strong connection to religious beliefs and Jewish culture, Hebrew started its comeback in the late 1800s and is today a thriving, growing, changing language that both steals words from elsewhere and makes up terms of its own.
Every year, the language schools here integrate thousands of adult immigrants and teach them modern Hebrew with the best methodology according to the latest linguistic research. If you want a total-immersion program, Israel is the best in the world. My goal was not to write the next Pulitzer Prize-winning novel in Hebrew. I just wanted to be able to purchase my own vegetables at the shuk and not feel dependent on others for mundane tasks.
Rivka started with the alphabet and basic conversation. Every day for six months, I spent four grueling hours listening intently and practicing speaking with my mostly Russian classmates. Because they didn't speak English, it was impossible to cheat on Rivka's exercises, and by the time ulpan aleph ended, I could order a cup of coffee, haggle over the price of carrots, albeit not very well, and ask for directions.
Today, six years later, I still read at the speed of a tortoise and have trouble making out the hourly radio news. I am often overly polite and frequently mispronounce words or put them in the wrong context, but at least I can sometimes express myself without sounding like a 3-year-old. Most important, I can not only buy my vegetables now, but I haggle over the price of them as well as any sabra.
Meredith Price grew up in Marietta and bought a ticket to Tel Aviv on Sept. 10, 2001. She writes a column on Israeli innovations and cultural features for The Jerusalem Post. You can reach her at meredithmprice@yahoo.com.
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