"So when are you coming home?" my mom's friend asked me. "Home in Tel Aviv or home in New York?" I asked. "NY silly, when are you going home?" she pressed again. Like a kid in the gan, "I am home," I whined to myself, as I furrowed my brow and pouted. How could she say that? I live here. I work here. It is home. Right?
Or is that just what they tell us?
Have I been brainwashed to believe that this is my home because it is the home of the Jewish people? Or is it simply my selfishness thinking I am so entitled because my father was born here? Either way, in the midst of my confusion, stubborness and frustration, this country has become just as much home as 23 years in New York. The air I breathe is my sustenance. I have found a community here. Still torn, my loyalties are towards two places. I hope to fuse them into one.
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