And then, suddenly, it seemed like a great abyss had opened beneath his feet.

Iraqi forces invaded Kuwait. Israel was threatened with missile attacks. Foreign tourists advised to leave. Everything had been going so well for him, and now this. It brought his whole world crumbling down. He didn't want to have to leave and was in two minds about what to do. He could leave and return once more when it had all blown over (however long that might take) or he could stay and weather the times to come.

He bought himself a ticket back to England, but that hadn't resolved matters for him at all. He really didn't want to leave but it could be risky. He fought with himself right up to the last moment. A good kibbutznik friend even tried to get the bakery to reimburse him for the price he'd paid for the ticket. He would've stayed if that had worked out, but unfortunately it didn't. A group of new volunteers arriving a few days before he was due to depart didn't help him to sort out the mess in his head either.

But time eventually beat him. The day of his flight came and, with fond memories, a sad heart and a promise to return, he boarded the plane. He was sat behind two young people who'd obviously been on a kibbutz and were talking about how they'd enjoyed the five weeks they'd spent there.
'Five weeks... is that all?' he thought. Try staying for five months and be happy at the thought of leaving

He really did feel bitter.