There's no place like home

RON FRIEDMAN

Arriving in Israel at the start of the month of Adar ought to be a good omen. In Jewish tradition, Adar is the happiest month of the year. As the saying goes: "MiShenichnas Adar Marbim BeSimcha!" (When Adar comes, joy is increased!) Unfortunately, the commandment to be joyous doesn't mesh too well with jet lag – or the need to find a job and a place to live.

The first manifestation of this paradoxical homecoming wasn't a long time coming. As I made my way out of the arrivals hall at Ben Gurion Airport after a long transatlantic flight from Canada and a short layover in Kiev, I saw that several of my fellow passengers, a group of Breslov Chassids, back from a pilgrimage to the grave of the Rabbi Nachman in Uman, were greeted with songs and dancing. No one who's ever witnessed the joyful and animated worship of this Chassidic sect can doubt that these guys are serious about Purim and the commandment to be happy and festive.

My own arrival, meanwhile, was far more somber. The short drive from the airport to my wife's family home in a nearby moshav was filled with no-nonsense talk about ungodly house prices and the poor prospects for finding a job in this weakened economy. My father-in-law, who, like most Israelis, is not one for small talk, wasted no time letting me know that I couldn't have chosen a worse time to return to Israel. The same sentiment has been echoed repeatedly by many of the people I've talked to since.

But here I am. After seven years away, I'm back in my home country.

When I first left for Canada in 2002, I had no plans of ever coming back. I purchased a one-way ticket to Toronto and anticipated a lifetime of globetrotting as a citizen of the world, free from the overbearing ties to the much-too-promised land. I thought I had left behind my worries over security, my anger at the corrupt and inefficient institutions, my sadness at the social inequalities and my disappointment at the unfulfilled potential.

It wasn't to be.

Like many other Israelis who moved away, I discovered that I couldn't let go. I continued reading Israeli newspapers and listening to Israeli music on Galgalatz, the IDF-managed radio station. I rented a basement that belonged to an Israeli family. I made friends with the other Israelis at the university. I even took a job with El-Al, the Israeli airline. I met, fell in love with and eventually married an Israeli woman and, after graduation, took a job as the editor of the Jewish Independent, which also dealt extensively with Israeli issues. Even my thesis was about Israeli advocacy in Canada. In short, despite leaving the country physically, I made sure that I was still connected to it in all other aspects.

What is it about this place that just won't let you go? A few months ago, I attended a lecture by the Israeli writer David Grossman in Vancouver. He spoke about what it meant to him to live and write in Israel. His words stuck with me because they described as closely as possible my own feelings about the country and its society. He spoke about a feeling of vitality that he just doesn't experience anywhere else. He said that, despite all the problems and the "tormenting reality," there is no other place where he doesn't feel like a foreigner. "Israel," said Grossman, "is still not the home I want it to be, but it might become this home and everything that happens there – even if I don't like it – is relevant to me." And that is the way I feel, too. In Israel, everything is significant. Everything is immediate. Everything is relevant. And though I may hate it as much as I love it, I realize that it's good to feel with such passion.

People must think I'm crazy. To willingly leave Vancouver, a place that is constantly listed as one of the best and most beautiful cities in the world, in exchange for an unknown future in Israel – a place that, at the best of times, is steps away from existential annihilation – is, admittedly, an odd decision. And it's not like things here in Israel have changed for the better in my absence. There are as many, if not more, reasons to kvetch now as when I left. The economy is worse, the security situation is worse, Israel's standing in the eyes of the world is at an all-time low, popular culture is dominated by brain-numbing reality television and the country has just elected a right-wing religious government into office. But it's raining now and in this parched country, that is good news. I finally share the same time zone as my friends and family and tomorrow, I can look forward to meeting my best friend at a Tel-Aviv café. So though I'm sure I'll second-guess myself many times over as the weeks and months go by, for now at least, I'm happy with my choice.

After all, where else would I go see my nieces march in a Purim parade where the themes are Israeli children's books, the same books I was read as a child? Where else would I visit my brother at an army base and have a roadside picnic? Where else would I see a mislaid backpack on the train and hurriedly seek out a security guard out of fear for the safety of my fellow passengers? Where else would I go to a concert at two o'clock in the morning to see a 62-year-old rock legend perform the songs I grew up listening to? And this is only a week after my return.

So sure, I'm worried that I have to stay with family instead of having the privacy of my comfortable apartment and sure, I'm stressed because I don't yet have a proper job. But religious commandments aside, I choose to be happy this Adar. At long last, I am home.

Ron Friedman, former editor of the Jewish Independent, is now a freelance writer based in Israel.

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