The Things We Live By

prologue

I am Ruth Moriah Greenbaum, and if I'm being perfectly honest, my life in Golders Green, North London was perfectly satisfactory, if not exactly fulfilling or exciting.

Granted, I never really felt at home there, probably because it wasn't my home, but then again, home – Jerusalem, Israel – never felt like home either. I mean, I guess for a few years it did, and then there's that weird connection all Jews seem to feel to the Holy Blessed Promised Land of the Covenant, but since the age of ten – when Dad's backwards-enlightenment hit us square in the face and left us all feeling very religiously confused and directly inspired Dad and Natan and I's descent to the cursed diaspora – centre of the Israeli universe, Golders Green, was my quiet and humble and polite abode and I was fine with it. I guess in all his determination to strip off any religious affiliations, Dad was still kinda scared. Orthodox Judaism was the only thing he'd ever known, and he wanted to stay close to it, I guess, sort of in the way people sit around the campfire, basking in its warmth, but never actually leap into the flames.

Golders Green was conventionally suburban. There was a big intersection where the two main roads crossed each other, and from there on just branches and branches of domestic neighbourhood, terraced and semi-terraced housing, white washed fronts, scraggly hedges that needed looking after. It was safe, which was good, because it meant staying out late was never a problem, especially for my Dad who seemed especially eager to be super-liberal as if to prove a point. My friends were a ten-minute ride away, maximum. Easy. On weekends we'd sit on low stone fences and drink from plastic bottles and smoke dubious-looking cigarettes and that would be fine, really, just as long as we didn't make too much noise. Quiet was key.

And that's all that polite British front really is, right? Quiet. Not saying what you mean, not showing your attitude, keeping it hushed. It drove me crazy sometimes; the Israeli loudness, bluntness, was hard to forget. You always got called out on your bullshit. That British etiquette never really sat right with me, and I didn't settle for it. 'Honesty is the best policy' was my motto – still is – but I guess after the novelty of it wore off, people didn't like it too much.

Keep that in mind, dear reader, for the next part of this story.

As I was saying, Golders Green – perfectly satisfactory, suburban suffocation aside. It seemed, for a while, that Dad felt this way too, and that we would stay here, and that it'd be fine. It's been, what, six and a half years? No reason to suspect otherwise.

That is, until Dad called Natan and me for an important family talk, which could never end well. The Process, he explained – which was what he called his complete de-Jewification at age thirty – is a continuous one, it's never really over, and really, he can't stand this damn closed community and the damn Kosher signs everywhere – he cringed at Natan's monstrous bite of a BLT (old habits die hard, huh, pa) – and it's bringing up some things he's rather be away from, and honestly, it would do us some good to see some diversity, you know, we've been surrounded by Judaism since day one.

"So, basically," he said in a quiet, grave tone – big breath, suitably dramatic – "we're moving to Ireland."

"You're such an arsehole," I said, because honesty is the best policy, and Golders Green was perfectly satisfactory. 

A/N cover credit goes to @pinaxpple ! absolutely love this one