Over the last 20+ years, since moving to Israel, I have rarely left and I can honestly say, never simply for a holiday abroad. Not that I mean to imply that taking a vacation outside of Israel is wrong (or right), simply that I’ve left Israel twice for family obligations, twice for business and once for a trip to Poland, and that’s it. Five times in 20 years and each time, as the plane leaves Israel, I have this silent conversation…I’ll be back…I promise.
The first time I said those words, I was 16 years old and my heart was broken. I had found a place where I felt free, I felt me…and I was forced to return “home” to a place that by the right of birth should have been home. This time as I whispered my goodbyes to Israel, I was leaving children and grandchildren behind.
The trip to Poland was an agony of 8 days – and as I told the other participants, I would only “switch” from agony to hope when I felt the wheels of the plane leave Polish soil. And that is what happened. As we left Poland headed towards home, I knew that all the ugliness, all the death I had felt, was slipping back to the ground below, as I soared into the sky heading back to Israel.
The family trips were mixtures of sadness and joy. We went for a final visit, knowing that my ailing in-laws would probably not live much longer and that my grandmother, despite being relatively healthy, was getting older as well. It was, as we feared, the last time we saw any of them. By contrast, we went to a wedding to celebrate, but still felt the absence of those we’d hoped to see again.
The first business trip was taken alone and I found myself preoccupied with being an Israeli, pretty much on my own. Even when visiting among the local Jewish community, I found a measure of distance. T
This second business trip introduced the element of culture shock – isolated as an Israeli and a Jew. India is an amazing experience; so culturally different as to be almost a shock to the system. I don’t think the poorest person in Israel lives anywhere close to how many of the people we saw were living.
Coming back to Israel after 12 days in India revitalizes the senses. The first feeling in Ben Gurion airport was of home, familiarity. The truth is that it started on the plane even before we left London. We had flown six times in 12 days and without exception, each time there was the common sight of someone struggling to push hand luggage into the upper compartments.
Only on the flight home did it occur to me to comment to the person trying to manipulate the bags, “מה שלא הולך עם המוח, הולך בכוח”
It doesn’t translate well, but basically it means, where the brain doesn’t work, go with force, and the response is always, “what doesn’t go with force, goes with more force.” And that’s exactly what the Israeli responded with when I offered the first comment…it was my first acknowledgment that we were finally headed home.
On Shabbat, the sun seemed brighter, the colors of the trees and the buildings so beautiful. The difference between a developing country and Israel were readily apparent in my short walk to the synagogue. To be fair, the problems of Bangalore, a city with 8 million people in it, are vast compared to those of my small city of only 45,000 people.
But it wasn’t just Maale Adumim. Driving into Jerusalem I found myself smiling simply for the joy of being home. I parked where I always park, took the train from station to station and relished each moment. Each word of Hebrew was a gift; each sign a promise.