My cousin lives in the Garden of Eden. The official name of the place is Kibbutz Dovrat. We visited her and her lovely family this weekend. Their house is situated in the Izrael Valley, the subject of many Israeli folk songs, and has the most splendid view at its doorstep. Lying on the grass, breathing in the tranquility of the place, I had this conversation with my cousin and her neighbor:
The neighbor, with pity: “I heard you were moving to Toronto. We just had a visitor from there, a guy who grew up in the Kibbutz. He said that life was very hard there because of the long winter, and people spend most of their time underground. For the children it’s extremely difficult. His son doesn’t know what grass looks like. He was so happy here”.
Me: “Yes, it is cold and the adjustment might be hard for Daniel. But there are things over here that could be harder for him to cope with. I don’t want him to grow up in a violent society that is constantly at war. I don’t want him to feel anxious. I try to keep him away from all this but don’t feel that I can do it much longer".
My cousin, who reads this blog: "well, It’s because you take him on a taxi and live in the city".
The neighbor: “Yes, you can live like us” looking around, gesturing to the beauty of the place. “Here, in this bubble.”
Me: “I am sorry, but I can’t. I can’t live in the bubble. It’s a make-believe world. I can’t pretend anymore.”