Opinion & Commentary:

Gaining a second home and returning to my first

By Sarah Morrison

July 4, 2008

The first Israeli music personality that I ever came across was Idan Raichel. Everyone in New Jersey talked about him -- his newest tracks, his free shows in Central Park. I was so out of the loop with Israeli society that I had no clue who he was. I assumed that Idan Raichel was a woman -- "Raichel" sounds so familiar to "Rachel"-- and that she sat crooning on a guitar for hours on end, emitting some high-pitched, ill-written Hebrew ballads.

People who know of Idan Raichel know that I couldn't have been further from the truth. First, Idan is a "he," and second, he is known not for horrible Hebrew ballads, but for expertly blending every aspect of Israeli society together by using music as a common mediator.

Needless to say, I was blown away by his talent when I went to his concert in Jerusalem during my "gap year" in Israel, only recently learning his gender and barely able to follow his lyrics. I felt like the biggest loser on earth among the other American kids who could recite every single word to every single song, but there's nothing I love more than the energy of a live concert, so I went with the flow and had a blast.

It seemed a little backwards; only after that event did I begin to listen to Idan Raichel obsessively. Even though my Hebrew was still rusty, I embarrassingly -- and loudly -- stumbled through the Hebrew and sometimes Arabic lyrics. I carried on like this long enough to create a soundtrack for my 10-month experience living in Israel: Idan Raichel was my own personal theme music for every bus ride, hike, and trip to the Western Wall.

One song in particular played on repeat in my internal iTunes: a song called "Shuvi Et Bayti (Return To My Home)." The only Hebrew I understood in that entire song was the title, but it was the only Hebrew that I needed to know. The song spoke volumes for what I couldn't say. It said I have finally returned home.

I lived in Israel from September until June, a common thing for kids in the Orthodox community to do between high school and college. Alumni of the "shana ba'aretz" treasure the experience as the greatest -- and quickest paced -- year of their lives. They were right. I blinked, and it was time to return… home. Going back was what every girl talked about: how all her things could fit into her suitcases, where she is going her last Shabbat in Israel, how she could possibly deal without living in the confines of a seminary.

However, I was anxious to return to New Jersey. Never in my life did I think I would say those words, but there I was repeating them over and over in my head. While everyone else was a mess, I calmly packed my suitcases and waited patiently for my midnight flight on June 16. Of course I love Israel. Of course I was sad to go. However, my dilemma ran a little deeper.

For the first time in my life, I had two homes. I had an established life with a loving household in New Jersey. I had an entire nation waiting for me in Israel. While others were worried about where their lives would lead, I was only consumed by guilt. I attended and worked for very Zionistic institutions and I'm still trying to store the extra suitcase full of guilt I packed with my clothing and souvenirs.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. Suddenly, Israel was thrown into the equation. The passion I had when I was in the land translated into a shame for leaving it. I felt like I let a good friend down. Despite any external factor I could blame the struggle on, I knew that this was part of the transition that every gap-year student returning from Israel has to go through. It's all part of remembering that police car lights don't flash all the time, the term is "excuse me," not "slicha," that a stray cat is not a normal occurrence. It's part of remembering that life moves on. No matter how incredible the "shana ba'aretz" was, the knowledge I gained throughout the year needed to be applied and activated where it needed to be utilized the most.

And then I landed. On June 16, I saw New Jersey for the first time in 10 months. Even though I was so much looking forward to going home, I assumed I would cry bucketfuls of tears while clinging desperately to the plane, screaming and refusing to leave until the Port Authority came to arrest me. However, I had the opposite reaction. I looked down onto rail yards and massive highways during landing with complete adoration. I couldn't wait to get out of the airport. I was so fascinated with the Turnpike, E-Z Pass, the Loews theater with the broken LCD display. I had forgotten about all these things, and here I was acting like a new immigrant. I treated everything like a new discovery, even if I lived with it for 19 years.

But I was going home. I was home. I didn't process that right away. I felt like a visitor for my first few hours back, nearly asking my mom for a glass of water out of my own fridge. Despite the unfamiliarity of something so familiar, the transition was easy. I did put an adapter on the toaster and then tried to plug it into the outlet. I gave my order to the Dunkin' Donuts guy in Hebrew.

Although I blundered through my first day back, it only took that long to transplant my life from Israel into New Jersey soil. And thankfully, it's thriving. I expected to face a homecoming so miserable that I would swim the Atlantic Ocean if necessary to go return to Israel. Instead, I thoroughly enjoyed coming back: returning to work, sleeping in my own room, driving myself instead of relying on the Egged bus system.

Words cannot describe how wonderful it was to see my parents after a 10-month intermission. The warm reunions with friends were alone worth the trip back. The truth is, I picked up my life where I left it 10 months earlier: I'm employed, cared for, and satisfied, just a little wiser than I was beforehand. I let God run the show a little more, refuse to be a part of the must-have, fast-paced American lifestyle, and just let things go with the flow. It's a smarter and greater way to live without shaking off obligation and responsibility.

And whenever "Shuvi Et Bayti" pops up during my iTunes shuffle, I reminisce. I remember those long bus rides, those hikes, and those trips. The guilt of leaving dissolves and I'm flooded with happy memories of the smartest decision I ever made. After 10 months of living in Israel, I can finally translate the lyrics. The song might not exactly apply to my life, but it will remain forever linked to my Israel experience.