Humans of Israel: My Uncle Isaac

This year, my Yom Ha’atzmaut story is personal. As Israel turns 75, the story I choose to tell is not written by Agnon, nor is it the epic story of a great Zionist leader. It’s the story of one Israeli who — more than any other Israeli writer, thinker or leader — influenced my deep personal connection to Israel. It’s the story of my beloved uncle — “Tonton Isaac” (as I lovingly addressed him in French), who passed away during Passover this year at the age of 87. 

This personal tribute was written during a three-day trip I took to Israel this past week, where I joined my family in Israel in sitting the last few days of shiva in memory of our beloved Isaac.

In making me a “ben bayit” — a member of his household — he opened my mind to the complexities of Israeli society, but also opened my heart to the beauty of Israeli life.

As I sat in the plane on my way to Israel, I reflected on the 43-year relationship I had with my father’s youngest brother. I thought about his encyclopedic knowledge of the Hebrew language, his brilliant perspectives on Jewish history, and his keen understanding of Israeli politics and Israeli society. I thought about how privileged I am that he lovingly shared all of that knowledge with me. My “Israel education” was not through lectures in a classroom, but from the many conversations with Uncle Isaac in his living room in Netanya, on the beach playing “matkot” (smashball) and at countless Shabbat dinners at his table. He opened his home to me for many years, and in making me a “ben bayit” — a member of his household — he opened my mind to the complexities of Israeli society, but also opened my heart to the beauty of Israeli life.

An Israeli life is what Isaac yearned to live from his childhood days in Morocco. 

An Israeli life is what Isaac yearned to live from his childhood days in Morocco. Born and raised in Marrakech, he grew up in a home entrenched in the Moroccan Jewish traditions of his parents and ancestors, but his heart was elsewhere. He came from a generation when the “return to Zion” went from dream to reality, and his life’s journey epitomized the fulfillment of the Zionist dream. As an active part of Zionist youth groups in Morocco, he became fluent in modern Hebrew and learned the philosophy, songs and poems of modern-day Zionism. While his elders sang “Bibhilu” and “Next Year in Jerusalem” at the Passover Seder, Isaac would recite Bialik’s poems under his breath, and in his heart he said, “This year in Jerusalem.”

He made Aliyah in the early 1950’s, and while he was fully aware of the negative stereotypes many held about Moroccan immigrants, he refused to ever let any of that get in the way of fully immersing himself and integrating into Israeli society. He served in the IDF’s communication corps, where, as he once joked to me, “Morse code does not have a Moroccan accent or a Polish accent.” On a more serious note, he served in three of Israel’s major wars — 1956, 1967 and 1973 — all of which deepened his bond and connection to his fellow Israelis. 

After meeting and marrying his wife — my “Tata Lydia” — they helped build Israel by building a beautiful family together. Their home blended some of their North African past with their newly adopted Israeli identity. They spoke French to each other, but spoke only Hebrew to their three kids. Their beautiful Shabbat tables were adorned with delicious Tunisian and Moroccan cuisine, but when guests would knock on their door, they would see a sign that said “Mishpachat Segev” – the Segev Family. Their North African pride gave way to their Israeli patriotism, as they adopted the Hebrew name “Segev” instead of Bouskila. 

Speaking of Hebrew, Isaac took his vast Hebrew vocabulary and expertise in Hebrew grammar into the classroom, where another expression of his Zionism was becoming a Hebrew teacher. He eventually became an electrician, but teaching was always in his heart. Indeed, he spent his life teaching his family the ideas and values of modern-day Zionism. He raised his kids as proud Israelis, not as “Moroccan-Tunisian-Mizrahi” Israelis, but just Israelis — without regard to any ethnic differences within Israeli society. Thinking about “Israel at 75,” I wish more Israelis today would adopt his forward thinking vision about Israeli society.

When Isaac would discuss Israel with me, he loved talking about the “differences between …” From him, I learned the differences between Israel’s vast array of political parties (he was a Likud-Menachem Begin fan), Israel’s different newspapers (he didn’t always love when I came home with Ha’aretz), the Euroleague’s Basketball teams (Maccabi Tel Aviv … and the rest is commentary), and classic Hebrew (the Bible, Bialik, Agnon) vs. Israeli slang (“speak English before you speak improper Hebrew slang,” he would tell me!). 

His sharp sense of humor was laced with a deep life’s wisdom, and while he loved his newly adopted country, he understood its quirks and nuances. I was once sitting next to him while on the phone with an El Al agent, frustrated by their giving me a hard time in changing the date on a flight to Los Angeles.

When I hung up, he asked me “What are you doing?”

“I am trying to change my ticket to L.A.,” I said.

“I know that, my question was not about that, rather why are you doing so in Hebrew?”

“Well, because we are in Israel” I said.

“Can I make a suggestion to you?” he said. “I know you love Israel and wish to speak Hebrew amongst Israelis, and that’s great. But if you are looking for customer service here, never speak in Hebrew. If you don’t believe me, call El Al again, and speak English.”

I promptly called back and made the same flight change request in English. The response: “Would you like a window or aisle seat?”

After two years of post-high school studies in an Israeli yeshiva, I faced a serious dilemma. I wanted to join the IDF, but I was also accepted to UCLA. Joining the IDF meant giving up my UCLA acceptance, because they did not allow deferral. I felt seriously torn, depressed and unable to make a decision. I spoke with my parents, but our vastly different views on this did not help. My father spoke often with his brother, and I guess my dilemma came up.

Just a few days after my last conversation with my parents, I heard a knock on my yeshiva dorm room door. I opened it, and there stood Uncle Isaac. He lovingly sat with me for two hours, and his ultimate message to me was: “I am very proud of my service in the IDF and what I have done to help defend this country, but I wish I had the opportunity to attend a university. Please go to college, I promise you Israel will always be here for you, welcoming you back with open arms.”

I was touched by his coming to see me, and I ultimately took his advice and started my studies at UCLA. When I took a leave of absence to come back to enlist in the IDF, I was indeed welcomed back with open arms  –  by my aunt and uncle. Despite my official status as a “lone soldier,” I never felt alone. Their home was my home. At my induction ceremony at the Kotel, it was Isaac and Lydia who stood there and watched me swear allegiance to the IDF. When I needed help or advice on how to survive the difficulties of army life, Isaac’s words of wisdom helped guide me. When I returned to Netanya from a near-death experience in Lebanon, it was Isaac and Lydia who were there waiting for me with love.

Far beyond those formative years in Israel, I continue to draw upon Isaac’s wisdom. Whenever I speak or write an article about Israel, I draw from his political knowledge. When I teach Agnon, I can hear him explaining the nuances of Hebrew grammar and vocabulary. My own family — Peni, Shira and Ilan — met him many times, and after being in his presence, the kids would say “now we see where Daddy learned all of this.”

Israel’s greatest resources are her human resources, and Isaac was a great “Human of Israel.” Thank you for all that you did for Israel, and for me. Both Israel and I are eternally grateful to you.

Rest in peace and Chag Atzmaut Sameach.

Rabbi Daniel Bouskila is the director of the Sephardic Educational Center and the rabbi of the Westwood Village Synagogue.