Hatikvah: My Home

Ahh, a familiar sound. A strange one that has a very unusual way of putting me at ease. This being back and forth all the time is enough to drive anyone nuts. I mean this whole waking up early and being bused to a seemingly arbitrary place thing. You’d think that by this point I’d have gone at least mildly insane. But somehow, everytime I walk through this place, I catch a glimpse of that big red neon sign of the currency exchange, there’s a comfortable feeling, like I’m somewhere very familiar. The undertone of Hebrew is soothing. The free-flowing dialect, the sharp syllables, the passionate pronunciation. Man, its good to be home

This place contains thousands of racing heads in transit through space and time. One man drinks dark morning coffee, across from him a boy eats a well garnished falafel dinner. The Ben-Guryone airport, is the first impression of eretz yisrael that most people ever receive. For me, this place is representative of all that was Kivunim.

Kivunim. New Directions. A year of my life spent traveling all around the world. Meeting others like me. Meeting my people wherever they may be found. But we always find ourselves coming back to the same place. A unanimous source. As a nation we have been through many times of flight, and of return. Home.

But times are different now. We can go and return of our own volition, and this place of taupe bricks, polished floors, and trilingual functions serves as a mighty threshold. Am I the same as when I left? Am I different? How so? Why? These persistent questions always have a way of finding me as soon as I step off the exit ramp. And then there it is. the split instant where our present existence in this place becomes memory. And the subsequent evaluation of how we remember them and how we evoke them. There is something reminiscent in the air. Its as if I can feel the heartbeats of all those jews who have passed through here.

I am a Jew. What does that even mean? I am a Jew in Israel. I am a Jew in morocco. I am a Jew in Turkey. I am a Jew in galut. The exile.

The airport is a place of utter transience. We assumed the identity of affluent vagrants who spent their delirium reading magazines in overpriced bookstores, or nestling a weary head on an adjacent shoulder. We even became well acquainted with the tight lipped customs officials, who consistently scolded us on having invalid student visas, for if we have truly come to Israel to study, then why do we leave each month? But had we not flown, we would have sailed, or drove, or ran. For nothing can halt the pursuit of knowledge, the beauty of experience. This same passion that burned in our stomachs allowed us to stomach that dreadful airline food time and time again.

And at the end of it all, we drag our weighty bags slowly, with weary hands to the bus. The friendly face of our driver triggers a deep breath of relief. Finally with the rising of a new sun, we are off on our way home again.






An Audio Piece: Can be heard at Nathanonthemicrophone.blogspot.com