I have a pretty strange memory for dates – in that I remember really random ones. For instance, I can’t forget that MLK was shot on April 4th, 1968, nor that the first Israel-PLO peace agreement was signed September 13th, 1993.
Some indelible dates though are much more personal to me. August 11th, 1991 was the date we left Israel. I remember different pictures from that day, different scenes very vividly. I remember saying goodbye to the grandparents as we all very anxiously, and fearful walked up the stairs at the old airport. There was a very good architectural division there, as if the architect was a movie director. The steps up were blocked quite fast by a low hanging wall and we lost eye contact with the adieu-bidders as we ascended into a hall cramped with people standing in line to have their passports checked. This added to our, or at least my feeling of anxiety, confusion and a complete lack of understanding of what was next.
I also remember leaving Italy quite clearly, though the date I am not sure of. I think it was the 13th of September as well. I remember saying goodbye to Amanda, calling her on a public phone from the airport and her saying something that sounded like I love you and me saying something that sounded like that back. It was the first time.
Tomorrow, I leave for Israel. I have left for Israel from the UK before, a few times in fact, one of them, last winter, for a long term visit of three months. This time feels different. Very different. I am leaving a sort of love interest behind, yes. I am reuniting with part of the family, rather than leaving it. But the main reasons why it feels so different are that for one, it’s really a big work move. I am not changing jobs. No. Not at all. In fact one of the reasons I am going is to be closer to Uzy so that he’ll push me further. But I will also be seriously considering other opportunities while there, looking at math-education and who knows what else.
Maybe the most important fact about this move though is that I have talked about it and planned it for so long, telling myself that I need it. Need to understand who I am, where I am from, where is my home – and where to start if not from where you were born and grew up? Funny enough though, I am not so sure if I need that any longer. I have realized that I actually enjoy being a foreigner, the look that people give you when you realize you speak with an accent and then ask you if you are Canadian, scared to ask if you are American so as to not offend you if you were Canadian. The death stare I give them in response clearly puts them in their place and clarifies that I do not come from frozen land.
The point is though that there is a fun element to being a foreigner, always feeling a bit out of place, a bit not belonging. Maybe, at this point, its just part of my personality, of who I am… will tomorrow be the beginning of a change?
Will I remember tomorrow’s date not as a leaving date, but rather as an arrival?
