Many centuries ago my motherland was forced to give away her children. She was not allowed to keep us. We were dispersed to many different homes around the globe.
I was fortunate. I was born decades ago to my surrogate country, America. You see, for some cosmic reason my motherland wasn’t ready for me yet. She couldn’t afford to give me the life she thought I’d want. A beautiful home, great schools, summer camps, vacations, gourmet food, the works. And so I was raised pampered and free of worry in America.
However, my genetic ties kept gnawing at my heartstrings.
As I got older I was granted a few visitation rights to Israel. I met dusty footed, sandal wearing, fun loving, family members for the first time. Although I was a foreigner they welcomed me with open arms and conversed with me like we’d always known each other. They were independent, confident, larger than life people, living simply and seemed more content than I had ever felt. I envied them. I relished every moment of my stay in Israel and felt a void upon my return “home”.
Don’t get me wrong I love America. I am eternally grateful for the wonderful life she afforded me and will never forget it. However, I never felt it was a natural habitat for me. I yearned for the hot dusty mountainous terrain that shared my spiritual DNA.
Life took many twists and turns and it took many years till I made it back to the place I yearned to call home. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. But I made it. I’m here. I’ve been here during intifadas, terrorist attacks, wars with all sorts of threats and losses, yet I still wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I love my land and I love my people.
One thing I wasn’t prepared for was the internal divide that exists and how painful that would be. I came from a pampered insulated place where my surrogate family always guarded my feelings. I now find myself home where all my brothers and sisters have gathered from assorted countries with different belief systems and ideas as to how this home should be run. We yell. We fight. We don’t listen to one another. We blame each other for our problems.
And I cry. Like a five-year-old child in a broken home, I lock myself in my room, go under the covers and cry. All I want is a peaceful home. I’ve waited to be with my lost family for so long and we can’t seem to make it work. It is getting loud and scary and dangerous.
And I’m afraid; for a house divided cannot stand.