I went across the street to the local makolet (the equivalent of a mini-mart) to pick up a few things. I chatted a bit with the cashier and an older neighborhood guy joined in the conversation. At a certain point, it was just him and me.
“Have you lived in the neighborhood long?”
“A few months.”
“Oh, where do you live?” (Anywhere else you might think twice about answering this question, but this is Israel.)
“Over there at number ___.”
“Oh, yeah? I was born in that building! Now I live across the street at number ___.”
I found out the guy was in his mid-60s. That means his parents moved into this neighborhood a few years after the state was born, raised their kids, and some of those kids stayed right here. He told me that he lived in his parents’ apartment in my building until he was 28 and got married.
Israel is only 70 years old. I used to meet gray-haired people who built the state. Now here I was meeting a gray-haired person for whom the state was built. In his lifetime, he didn’t remember a time when there wasn’t an Israel. His parents did, but he was born and raised right here on this street with a birthright to the Jewish homeland.
This must be a special neighborhood though. A colleague of mine lives nearby in the apartment he was born in. It used to belong to his grandparents, his parents lived there, and now he lives there with his family. His parents moved down the street.
I find it fascinating from the point of view of someone who was born in Russia, moved to Israel, grew up in the US, and moved back to Israel. Where is “home”? For me, it’s wherever I am right now. For these two, it’s this neighborhood right here and will never be anywhere else.
The Write Place (for me) 