For those of us who spent our formative years in the Holy Land and now find ourselves, however reluctantly, strewn across the outer provinces of the diaspora, the pull of the place is inescapable. The land does not let you go. Having spent most of my twenties in Israel, I follow the country’s political, cultural, and intellectual life from afar with an attention bordering on the unhealthy, and positively pounce on any opportunity to return. I recently came back from just such a whirlwind visit, my first in a couple of years, and am happy to report that the country, like the toddler I was obliged to drag across the Atlantic for fifty cumulative hours of travel, survived the experience largely intact. For this, I remain profoundly grateful to the assorted presidents, generals, and murderous potentates who saw fit to grant Ben-Gurion Airport a well-timed respite.
The trip itself was a happy one: a long-awaited family wedding, my parents’ golden anniversary, and the exceedingly rare gathering of all seven Kimche siblings, flung as we are across three continents. Libations were consumed, tributes offered, old memories exhumed, present absurdities debated, and future schemes hatched. Although hardly a man of mystical temperament, I will admit that returning to Israel has upon the mind and spirit an effect that evades description. Even a trip as brief and hectic as this one leaves an indelible trace, stirring a maelstrom of longing and aspiration that threatens to upset an otherwise placid existence.