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  • I sat in the train carriage feeling separated from the scene around me. I was starting my journey which would take me by rail down to Dover; across the Channel by ferry, across France to Marseilles, then by boat in tourist class to Israel. I had lived with this group of girls who were weeping with regret of leaving their parents behind, on a farm in Somerset where we were selected as Kibbutz community living material; for two weeks and knew them intimately.

    I wished that I could weep, or wanted to weep with regret of leaving my mother behind; but I could not show this emotion. I was coldly glad that I would not see my mother for a year. I desperately wanted not to be this introverted, person whose emotions were locked away in an airless box inside me. But my life had only prepared me to let fate carry me where ever it wanted to dump me.

    In fact I was amazed that eighteen year old girls could show such infantile behaviour.

    I looked out of the window at my father; a quiet, reserved man who loved me but had taken the route of supporting my mother instead of me; and my mother who rejected me every day of my adolescent life angry that I did not fit into the mould that she had caste for me; standing on the station platform, with a group of parents assembled to wave their children goodbye.

    I just sat and waited for the train to take me away from a life that had no music for me and prayed that I would find some release; a new life, a new world, in the year ahead. Little did I know that my journey would take me to finding a man who could melt my carefully structured shell.
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