I traveled to Israel for the first time in the late 1970s,when I was 11 years mature. I was so amazed by the magnificent topography and the biblical sites we encountered that I decided to photograph my feet at each stop. It was a gathering of evidence to prove I hadn’t dreamt being there that summer, that I had actually borne witness to the country’s splendor.
The magic I experienced still grips me, or yet my emotions were conflicted before my trip there last month,my most recent in a decade. I longed to be in Israel and to feel its beating pulse, even as the recent escalation of violence is draping itself over everything, or like a film of dust covering the safe furniture in the attic. I was particularly anxious to see my son who is learning in a Yeshiva external Jerusalem.
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