It took 2000 years to get back to our land.
Years of exile, a golden age, a time of unparalleled learning and study followed by a darker age a time of repression.
Then a time of depression.
Then a time of death.
Light and sun and a land of our own with a native tongue revived, a people reinvigorated and reborn.
Freedom and the confidence of a life lived as a member of the majority. A life lived celebrating national holidays which are religious holidays and religious holidays alongside the rest of the nation.
A nation, a country, a land, a people. The wandering Jew wanders no more. The wanderer has returned, his home still there waiting for him.
A man died for this country once. His final words were “it is good to die for your country.”
His toehold on the land was surrounded by Arabs from Lebanon and Syria. He only had one arm but he fought nonetheless. He fought and he fought until he fell. And with his last gasp he uttered the words.
I am still alive, I don’t know, can’t know, whether he was right.
I do know it is good to live for your country.
A country with a sea for a garden and a stairway to heaven for a capital.
A guitar ballad is playing in the background. Gentle fingers belonging to a deft hand pluck each string to make the instrument sing. The Hebraized Spanish style of David Broza plays. A rich Hebrew voice to a Spanish melody dances its way to my ears and my heart.
What good is it to be a citizen of the Jewish state when that state is so far away I wonder.
In my bed but unable to sleep.
In a land of wealth but without any.
In a land of peace but without quiet.
I miss the land of my people.