From Goodwill and Galut to Geulah

What I carried in that old garment bag wasn’t just clothes, but the weight and will of a journey out of personal exile.

Dusty and battered, this suitcase which had held remnants of past constraints and a longing for return, now lay discarded in the Land of Israel.

Reposting because, well, we're moved back into Tzfat, yet again, and the spiral of years and decades circle 'round.

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A few thoughts and a personal Exodus memory, reedited and updated to reflect latest events on the eve of Pesach, תשפ’’ה (5785) 2025:

Fifteen years ago I returned to Israel after an arduous, often painfully lonely, three-year sojourn in my the beloved land of my birth, working in public news radio at two Georgia outlets. Some of you may know about that complex experience from other posts here and on other social media platforms.

What some may not be aware of, however, is that, during that period, I lived very, very close-to-the-bone, often in cramped single-rooms and studio apts., and often in grave despair over ever being able to make my way back home to Israel, my children, and former life. In short: living at or below the poverty line.

While friends and colleagues were close comfort, and work and daily life kept me preoccupied, inside I viscerally ached to return, to breathe the air of the Land of Israel, to experience the sounds, scents, and scenes of that I've been photographing, chronicling, and sharing since before my exit and since my return.

Due to staffing cutbacks at Georgia Public Broadcasting during my third year there, I — along with about five other employees — were abruptly let go on what I was told was strictly a “cost-cutting” measure. This, despite my Associated Press awards for my solo and statewide team radio coverage.

Tough times followed, and I had to make do with freelance radio work and other gigs, and then, I even found myself accepting community handouts from the Jewish social services and using whatever hand-me-downs and second-hand discards came my way — like the garment bag in the photo.

Little did I know at the time that this used, but then clean-and-functional folding airline garment bag, bought for $5 at Goodwill, would eventually end up, dusty and battered, at a recycling point in Tzfat, Israel. It contained my three "Sunday-go-ta'-meetin'" suits, also salvaged from Goodwill, along with wife Miri's own personal Exodus artifacts: blouses and skirts; all proper, subdued, and constricting corporate business attire, of a style and fashion that no longer reflected her world and life, the freedoms and customs, here.

Both of us, unbeknownst to each other, had been laboring on friendly, yet foreign shores, both of us hoping for an end to our personal exilic galuyiot — and not “diaspora.”

For my non-Hebrew-speaking readers, Egypt's very name in Hebrew - "Mitzrayim" (מצריים) - literally means constrictions, from the grammatical root, “tzar” (צר) — narrow.

And how sojust like that, just like during the Yetziyat Mitzriyam, the Exodus from Egypt, how constrictions can change in a heartbeat, a moment, a day, a month, a year, as we now, together, prepare for our own Seder with children and grandchildren, and friends, ensconced in our new/old home in the Galilee.

And the things we leave behind —sometimes in haste — but also sometimes gradually, clambering, over time and place, winnowing away the mental obstacles and constrictive garments, choices, and circumstances towards home, here, now, in a heartbeat.

I know this is only a “stub” of an essay — scribbled on my smartphone in between bouts of Pesach cleaning — as the Wikipedia term goes, but it may be updated as new memories come to mind.

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Thx, DB