On Dizengoff Street, Tel Aviv

Along Dizengoff Street I am press-secretary, pub-stool comedian, tour guide or talk-show host. The worn faces of the passers by, the dirty corners of the shops that sell only Kosher products, they're cheaper than back home and then the crumbling buildings, maybe Bahaus ( I can't tell ), along Allenby Avenue or Ben Yehuda street are whispering to me.

"I didn't quite work."

The online papers I click through are now printed blocks strewn along the beach. The in-human voice of the radio-announcer speaks so fast I can hardly catch a single word.

"This is why we left."

Today I saw my Uncle, but he was working as a janitor at the Sheraton Hotel. Six hours later I saw my grandmother walking through the Azreali Mall, but she had a different name. My little borther and sister are playing on every street corner, but in the Polish clothes of Orthodox Jews. The Star of David is graphed onto walls where the Swastika usually is. The Arabic on the street signs is often scratched away. Humidity. Mosquitoes. Ethipoian Jews strolling bewildered along the Promenade.

"What do I have in common with the Jews?"

On the roof on the hostel I felt cool. Girls where looking at me. I am tanned. A half-Jew from London rolled me a joint and told me about how he was about to join the IDF. Then he slumped down and looked at the low flying fighter jets. Practising? I suggested a book to my Teenage self and lay down in the matress in the corner. My words of advice:

"You're not Israeli. You're not even properly Jewish. Be yourself. Be proud of that, mate."

I am reminded of Kafka's papers under the flea-bitten matress. Max Brod lived in the tree-lined and grey-three-flour blocks where shacks sell auto-repairs and beach clubs with the ubiquitous 'Hawaian' groove are tuccked away. I stood there and pictured his winters. The rain. Memories of Europe. Why did he let that paper-jammed suitcases rot?

"What do I have in common with the Jews? I hardly have anything in common with myself. Sometimes I just want to sit down and just breathe." - His Diaries. (7/11/1919)

Standing there. A man with my father's forehead is laughing quietly as a Kebab vendor is showing off his theatrics with dizzying energy. That's when I understood my unease. In Kensington, as in the 8e I felt my family's sadness and long thought being by the others who went through "that" could, just maybe, heal our hearts. But it dosen't work like that. Humming anxiety is everywhere. It get into every crack like a soft summer rain.