San Diegan Recites His Own Personal Exodus — from Russia!

By Yakov Nayerman

SAN DIEGO — I don’t consider myself religious, but in our family, celebrating Passover is one of the most important events of the year. Every year, we gather around a festive table to repeat the formulaic sequence of storytelling and symbolism (after all, “Seder” means “order”).

This year, my four-year-old grandson Misha will be asking the Four Questions for the second time. To conclude our Seder, we have a long-standing tradition where each of us shares how they themselves have been liberated from a form of slavery.  And every year, I recall my own Exodus story, 35 years ago.

It was 1989, and we were leaving the Soviet Union with a visa for immigrating to Israel (the only option for leaving at this time). Our first stop “outside of the iron curtain” was Vienna. Those who were going straight to Israel were then flown directly to Tel Aviv. The rest of us, who were hoping to emigrate to another country (US, Canada, Australia, etc) had to spend several months in Austria and then in Italy, waiting for permission … or denial.

Before we could start making our case to the US, we had to first attend an interview with the Israeli consulate. This was to officially decline our previously approved route and get a stamp on our documents, which signified the Israeli government releasing us to go our own way. I was so nervous for this interview.  Not because I was afraid of not passing (no one was being forced to the Promised Land!) No, what tormented me was having to explain why I didn’t want to go to Israel, when in truth, I didn’t have any particularly compelling reasons. I felt like a traitor; like I used Israel’s generosity to escape the USSR, when really I had no intention of moving there. This sense of guilt made me break out in a cold sweat.

We were taken to the Israeli consulate and led into a large room. About 30 people packed inside. Everyone sat in silence, waiting to see what would happen. No one was talking; we all seemed to be preoccupied with the same thoughts – hoping we would be broken up into private interviews so we wouldn’t have to explain ourselves in front of everyone.

Then, the door opened and a young man with a kippah walked in.

“Shalom! Hello!” he said in fluent Russian, though he gargled his “Rs” like a true Israeli. “I want to immediately put everyone here at ease: all of your visas have already been stamped.”

He placed a stack of our green visas on the table.

“There will be no interviews, and we don’t need or expect any justification from any of you. For over 2,000 years now, when we celebrate Passover, we reflect that every generation has its own ‘Egypt,’ its own ‘Pharaoh,’ and its own Exodus. And if we’ve helped you make your Exodus from the Communist ‘Pharaohs,’ we’ve already fulfilled a great mitzvah! I wish you all success in your future endeavors — in America, Canada, Australia, Europe… and good luck with your upcoming immigration interviews, whose success will be key to securing residency in your chosen countries.”

He paused briefly and continued:

“But I want you to remember this: wherever you end up, whatever your circumstances, you will never have to prove your right to enter Israel. We will always make room, find a place for you, provide a roof over your head, provide financial support, healthcare and welcome you in our corner of the world. Our country was created by people like you — for people like you. The criteria for the right to Israeli citizenship were defined back in the days of the Nazis: if you were Jewish enough for them to force you to wear a yellow star and send you to a concentration camp, then you have the right to become a citizen of Israel. And as long as we exist — you will always have a place to call home.”

He wished us good luck once more, turned, and walked out.

And we all sat there in silence, many of us with tears in our eyes.

Chag Pesach Sameach!
חַג פֶּסַח שָׂמֵחַ

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Yakov Nayerman in his retirement is a freelance writer based in San Diego.