In the Land of Milk and Honey

---

---

When I caught the number 60 bus headed south from Be'er Sheva, there was just enough sunlight left in the sky to know that I was headed towards a place unlike anywhere I had ever been...

"Hey, Jake, would you like to go with us to Ashqelon?"

One month ago I would have been hard pressed to tell you what continent this city was located in. Today, having now spent the last month of my life on Kibbutz Sde Boker, smack dab in the middle of Israel's Negev Desert, I know all about the recent events that have again put Israel on the front page of every newspaper in the world. It was only yesterday that I read about the grad missile that narrowly missed a kindergarten in the closest Israeli city to the Gaza Strip, Ashqelon. When Gal and Tal, two of my closest Israeli friends on the kibbutz, approached me in the dining hall with this question, I would be lying if I told you that fears of safety did not immediately pop into my head. Of course they did--I am an American. I come from perhaps the safest state in arguably one of the safest countries, half a world away from the wars that America backs but that Americans do not understand. Surrounded in all directions by miles of desert, Sde Boker is about as safe a place as you could possibly be in Israel at this time. Using my thumb as a radius, I have conclusively determined that I am well out of Gaza's rockets zone. Joking aside, although I really did this using my officially licensed Israeli Youth Hostel map taped on my wall, being in a country at war has changed my perspective about war, Israel and the life that I take for granted every day as an American. The rest of the world scoffs at our neglect. As I passed through customs upon arriving in Tel Aviv, the officer, although friendly, sarcastically asked me if I felt scared arriving in Israel in the midst of Operation Cast Lead. The fact that the question came only seconds after I had showed her my American passport and admitted that I had in fact come to Israel on my own and not as a participant in Taglit Birthright, lead me to this conclusion. I wouldn't say that I'm scared but I am certainly more aware and alert to what is going on around me than I have ever been in my entire life. Honestly, though, if I ignored reading the Jerusalem Post on a daily basis, I would be completely oblivious to the current situation in Gaza. Although my lack of Hebrew prevents me from understanding conversations or deciphering the radio, life at war is life as usual here in Israel. Israel is surrounded by countries that hate them. Not all of its borders are in fact borders, they are cease-fire zones. Treaties are made to be broken and cease-fires are as impermanent as these fictitious dotted lines on the map. When I asked an Israeli about the recent breach of a cease-fire, the response that I got was not what I expected: "Yes, of course, it was only a matter of time." A large portion of the workers that I go to the Chicken houses with six days a week are members of the "gorin." They are temporarily working on the kibbutz with members of their unit either prior to or after serving their time in the Israeli Defense Forces. When news of a broken cease-fire only days after it was agreed upon hit the news wire, I was shocked. What I have come to realize is that virtually nothing is agreed upon. And absolutely nothing surprises Israelis. It has been this way since they were born and since the days of Israel's independence. Twice recently I have heard soldiers reflect on their experiences in the military and in Gaza as "fun." At first I was disturbed to hear this kind of reflection. Killing surely can't be fun for these people. Although I do not believe this is their mindset, hate certainly runs deep here. The Israelis have been immersed in it their whole lives. Military service is a fact of life here. In many ways the Israelis are robbed of their youth. While Americans spend their post high school days or college years boozing and dodging responsibility, the Israelis are dodging bullets, literally. When they say "fun" I have a feeling they are referring to the comradery that develops during their years in the army. To the Israelis, the individual events, such as a recent missile strike in Ashqelon, are minute when compared to the bigger picture. Israel is at war and will continue to be. Elections here are less than a week away and it comes as little surprise that all three front-runners have recently espoused their promise to remove Hamas from power in Gaza.

I, on the other hand, read the newspaper with a fine-toothed comb. My only knowledge of Ashqelon is that it's name peppers the headlines more frequently than Paris Hilton in the States. It is an easy target got Hamas militants. Recently, however, I also learned that it is home to both Tal and Gal.

"Sure, why not?!" is my response.

This is the first time that I have been invited to do something with the Israelis and I'm not going to pass on this opportunity. It turned out to be a great decision. I met the girls about a half hour later ready to catch the bus to Be'er Sheva. "We're not taking the bus," they tell me, "we will catch a ride." I knew then that this was going to be quite a day. Urban legend and Hollywood horror films have curbed what already seems to have been a dying means of transportation--hitch-hiking--in America. There's a first for everything, though. Tramping, as they call it in Israel (I didn't bother to explain its English connotation), is a very common way to travel, especially in the Negev. Astounded by the cheap price of public transportation, you might think otherwise but the Israelis don't like spending one shekel more than they have to. After about ten minutes, Tal hails a driver to the side of the road and he agrees to take us a little ways past Be'er Sheva where we will meet an ex kibbutznik of Sde Boker who will take us to Ashqelon. The sun is sinking and the beach is calling our names. After a few turns and a few Bob Dylan songs, we meet up with our connection and I find myself squeezed into the back of a tiny car with Gal and a slobbering dog. After stopping briefly to say hi to one of Tal's friends we have one more crucial stop to make before the beach--we need beer!

Beer, somewhat to my surprise, is quite good here in Israel. The problem is that there not much of a selection. Goldstar, the dark lager and most popular, outdoes most American beers but does not compare to the European beers I have sampled during my two week trek of Europe with Abe. Unlike Europe; however, the beer is cheap. For pilsner lovers, like myself, Maccabbe is Israel's "other" beer. It tastes good after a day in the chicken house. After stopping at a couple of shops, we grab some Goldstars and head for the beach. Ashqelon is north of Gaza and Ashdod, to the north, can be seen from the beach we find ourselves at. The sun is gleaming off of the Mediterranean and naval destroyers dot the horizon. The spherical Holiday Inn overlooks the small beach. The sand is fine and the water blue. I take my shoes off and stroll through the waters. Although it is a particularly warm day for the winter, the girls still complain about the cool water. For me this is some of the warmest water I've ever felt and after describing the freezing water in Maine the girls seem to have more of an understanding of the climate I come from. Telling them that Montreal was -21 Celsius the day before also helped.

After swimming a bit in what I would call warm water, we return to the sand for a beer and watch the sunset. The evening was just getting started, though. As we pack up our stuff into the car and get ready for the trip home, Tal tells me that we will be stopping at her hose just for a quick visit. This is cool with me as I will have a chance to meet a real Israeli family.

She lives in a gated village not far from the beach. She is greeted with great surprise by her two teenage sisters and parents. I find myself, somehow, alone on the couch with Tal's father and an extremely limited Hebrew vocabulary. Unless he is about to ask me a string of yes/no questions (in English of course, to which I would respond in Hebrew), this could be a bit awkward. "Where the hell did the girls go? " I think to myself. We are watching the evening news and her dad is explaining to me how the Israeli navy had searched a ship sailing from Tripoli, via Cyprus, for weapons. I am relieved to find that his English is quite good. He asks me how old I am and for my best chicken cluck. Although my female "cluck" seems to suffice, he next asks me for the crow of a rooster. I defer and after about ten seconds of awkward silence, Tal's father bellows one of the best rooster imitations I have ever heard (and let me tell you, I have heard many on the kibbutz). The punchline of this tangent, though, is that that father of three girls follows this up by exclaiming with a great Israeli accent: "I am the male of this house." I enjoy a laugh before he asks me how long I plan to stay on the kibbutz. One year? Half a year? I know that my answer could be trouble. Nothing embarrasses me more than being the stereotypical American who can afford to travel the globe with ease. "Three months, maybe more. I love history so Israel is great." After searching for the word I thought he was looking for, he asked if I was staying on a kibbutz for my resume. Again embarrassed, I explain that I am here for the experience and travel. He is friendly but very direct. Very Israeli. The cultural difference between Israelis and Americans is quite obvious at times. The word "sabra" is used to describe a native Israeli. It translates as "cactus" and is very accurate. Prickly on the outside, yet once you get to know them, Israelis are quite soft and friendly. I certainly did not know Tal's father. After he theorized that Israel would become America's 51st state under Obama, it was time for dinner. Tal and Gal had whipped up shakshuka, a delicious tomato and egg dish.

The humorous misunderstanding of the night came when Tal offered me hummus and I accepted, repeating the word in my best Hebrew accent "choo-mas." Thinking that I had impressed everyone at the table, Tal's father quickly alerts me to the fact that I had just asked his daughter to please pass me the Palestinian militancy that rules Gaza. There's a big difference between Hamas and chickpea spread, so I want to be sure to remember the difference. "Three parts," he teaches me, "Choo-moo-s." After repeating it, correctly I hope, I will be careful not to make the mistake again.

Before heading home we had to drop off Tal's younger sister at school. As we left her village by mini van, Tal's two sisters competed to see who could do a better imitation of the Ashqelon bomb siren, yet another indicator that these people have known war their entire lives. Tal's parents had told her when she was growing up that maybe by the time she turned eighteen, and had to serve in the army, that perhas there would be no need because Israel would be at peace. That day never came for Tal but maybe there is still hope for her younger sisters.

The hitchhike home included five different legs ans we even ended up riding with a couple of bedouins, the arab nomads that live in the hills of the Negev. It was quite a day, one of the coolest experiences of my life. To think, when I woke up that morning I thought the only thing that I would be doing was cleaning chicken houses. That's the great thing about living the life I'm living right now--you never know what's on the horizon. Maybe the Dead Sea will be next? Maybe something else. Who knows?

---