A picture of Stalin

60 years ago when my parents met in kibbutz Bar-am, my father had a picture of Stalin on the wall. This is what I make of it:

There is a young man sitting at the airport.
Yesterday after he finished packing, he said a quick goodbye to his mother and a friend toke him to a near by bus station. Waiting for the bus like he always did in that station, he knows that this is where he belongs. It was his home from the day he was born and yet he could not live there any more.
Few months ago he woke-up form a dream. He was trying to stand up with a pile of bricks on his shoulders, but their weight was keeping him down. When fully awake he knows that now he must go.
And when the bus gets there it is all over.
He goes to the city of romance and he starts sailing the streets. The city is ever so tempting; the beautiful women, the food, the art; so much to discover so much to enjoy. And then its getting cold in the streets and love is only a promise. His heart is telling him it is time to go, Paris is not far enough.
Next stop is the African bush. He starts to work with the locals. They tell him, will pick you at nine and they come after five; now he knows he is distant enough; at night he still dreams of the bricks and who will carry them now.
The almighty sun and nights full of stars, his days are full with the land and its people. Day after day they are traveling the earth and at night they camp in the bush. The leg of a goat some porridge and tea; late by the fire the bricks are fading away. One a day, travelling on the back of a truck he is looking around him and at last he is feeling its o.k. to feel good; the weight of the bricks is not pulling him down.
No it’s not the end of his story. His adventures are over and in the days that will come he will have to deal with the bricks on his shoulder. One by one he will have to make sense of it all.
People are saying the revolution has failed but for him it’s his mom and his dad. Along with their love they gave him their dreams of changing the world. That is how the bricks became part of his life. The ideas that they had and the life that they lived he wasn’t aware it wasn’t his own, and the bricks were taking their toll.
Some people are born and never leave but others must go; and life is never the same. It wasn’t his home he was trying to leave, it’s the bricks. The ones that he stacked on his shoulders because he thought they were his.