It happened one flight: The Israeli love affair that changed my life
My heady Haifa romance couldn’t last. But it made me relate to Israel in a whole new way
Scenes from Sharon Rosen Leib’s time in Israel; Leib appears leftmost in all three photos. Courtesy of Sharon Rosen Leib
By Sharon Rosen Leib February 13, 2024
I met Young Love on an early morning flight from Tel Aviv to Switzerland in 1985.
He was over six feet tall, thin, muscular with sleepy brown eyes and long eyelashes — like a giraffe. Adorable but awkward in his rumpled shorts and T-shirt, he folded himself up in the aisle seat next to me and conked out. His arms twitched in his sleep.
Reading my book, I scooched out of forearm range. Not far enough; at one point, his arm hit my side with enough force to knock my book down. This awakened him and he said “slicha” — “excuse me.”
“Hakol beseder,” I said — “everything is alright.”
He picked up on my American accent and said in English, “I thought you were Israeli.” We flirted for the rest of the flight, discovering much common ground. He’d been accepted to the University of California, Berkeley, on an athletic scholarship but turned it down to become a pro athlete. I’d graduated from the same university the previous year. We had a mutual friend there — an Israeli track star who’d served in a special military unit with him. We were both 22 years old and Libras.
“Maybe we’d balance each other,” I thought. When I said I lived and worked in Jerusalem, he told me he’d be there in a few weeks for a tournament and asked how to reach me. I gave him my work number and address.
We hugged and said our goodbyes in the Swiss airport; I went off to see my family, who had traveled to visit my sister who was studying abroad. I doubted that I’d see him again.
But I underestimated him. Two weeks later, he showed up unannounced at the Hebrew University flat I shared with three Israeli women. One of them said in English, “Sharon, you have a visitor.” Still in my pajamas, I came out of my room and saw him bending his head through the door. He grinned shyly but had a self-congratulatory gleam in his eye. He’d tracked me down. Who just showed up out of nowhere like that? Apparently, a horny Israeli guy.
I offered him Nescafe, and we made a date to have dinner and see a movie that night: Places in the Heart, starring Sally Field. The tearjerker film’s tagline: “The story of a woman fighting for her children, for her land, for the greatest dream there is … the future.”
After the movie, we made love as only 22-year-olds can. He told me it was his first time. Afterwards, he invited me to Haifa to meet his parents that weekend.
When I arrived at his family home on a Haifa hillside, his mother greeted me with the unparalleled warmth that Israeli emas exude. She showed me straight to Young Love’s bedroom and told me that’s where I’d be staying. I was impressed by how progressive and direct she was. There was no pretense, no sneaking around.
Just like that, I had a new Israeli family. For the next few months, I spent almost every weekend in Haifa. We went to the beach, hiked, and, well, you know. Those were joyful times.
But our days were numbered — I had to get back to California to attend law school at UCLA. His parents told me I had a “lev zahav” — “a heart of gold.” They suggested I attend law school at the University of Haifa.
But regardless of my heart, I had a pragmatic head. My Hebrew was so-so at best. Studying law in Haifa would be hard as hell, and my family back home in Los Angeles would be upset at the change of venue. When I explained this to Young Love and his family, they frowned in disappointment, but said they understood.
Young Love visited me in Los Angeles. But over time our romantic connection became untenable. We remained friends, matured and married the loves of our lives — he a younger Israeli from Haifa, and me a Jewish man from LA. We ended up where we were meant to be. Our families met in person years ago. Now we stay in touch on Facebook.
Yet I never told him or his parents my primary reason for not staying in Israel — that I couldn’t bear the thought of raising future children in a potential war zone.
After the horrors of Oct. 7, my heart broke and guilt tormented me. My family and I walked the beaches of San Diego while my past love and his family experienced the greatest trauma of a generation. I wondered, if I had stayed, if my alternate-reality children would have been at the Nova music festival, where Hamas hunted down and killed young adults in their 20s like them. I cried for Young Love, his wife and their four children thrust into unimaginable terror. I thought back to that long-ago night watching Places of the Heart, and its exhortation to fight for one’s land, and the dream of the future.
A month after Oct. 7, I learned through Facebook that Young Love and his wife became grandparents for the first time. She posted a photo of their beautiful granddaughter. The joy in their eyes gave me hope for the future — that Israelis will find a viable solution for the sake of their children and grandchildren.
On Valentine’s Day, as we celebrate love, I hope Israelis know American Jews like me hold a place in our hearts for them. When I envision Israel’s future, I dream of a country in which new generations of enamored 20-somethings, like I once was, can feel light, free and safe in their pursuit of love.
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