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The valley below his hillside home appears upside down to you, as does the freeway overpass, like a concrete serpent lunging. Over lunch that he painstakingly cooked, the man explained free how he worked hard to survive in America. He had left Jerusalem with his wife and young son. And although he didnt need to, he nevertheless recited his immigration saga to youabout the paperwork and the waiting and the wheezing attorneys. He feels nothing for Israel, he insisted. You didnt believe him. His only free regret, he said, is leaving behind his mother. She refused to leave the free land where she has lived for over sixty years. Mother, land, mother, son. You can feel the mans futile attempt at breaking this pattern, as much as you feel the rhythm of his thrusts. Besides his mother, he also left behind a daughter. Rebecca had turned eighteen when the American visas materialized.
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