I made my way through Israel in a sleep deprived euphoria of thoughtlessness.
Thomas told me about it. A $2000 piss up plus a museum or two. All expenses paid.
I’m not Jewish enough, I’d thought. I went to catholic school for fucks sake.
But it was free, and I was twenty, and it was raining in England. Plus, Birthright kept on coming up on my phone.
The interview took 10 minutes and the flight 296.
19 brits, 8 IDF soldiers and an entry stamp which faded away precisely 23 days after being printed.
We stayed in hostels,
Partied in the streets of Jerusalem,
Slept out in the desert underneath a thick blanket of stars.
I thought little about religion and a lot about tan lines. Our armed guard told me that he dreamt of becoming a DJ.
By the time my stamp had faded, I was irrevocably changed. Whilst my passport had retained no memory of the trip, I thought of little else.
One Tuesday afternoon I went up to my Grandma’s house. She has a big chest in her living room, stuffed full with the browning olden days. I suddenly realised that I knew little of where I came from, or how my family had ended up in the UK. Whilst before I had seen religion as meaning rules, restrictions and bullying, I began to see home, family, food, tradition.
There was little faith in my acceptance of Judaism. I didn’t find God or stop eating ham sandwiches.
It was about my Grandmothers obsession with that old box of photographs.
It was about a feather which flew in my car window and landed on the dash.
It was about chicken soup, Brick Lane, questionable RS teachers, feeling I had to spend a lot of money when out with certain friends.
It was understanding myself, the past and how I had changed, without understanding anything at all.
