Letters from a War
The year is 5775 in the Hebrew calendar―2015 in the Common Era. Middle-East news is focused on Sunni-Shiite conflicts. The most recent Gaza cease fire between Israel and Hamas is holding and this most recent Israeli war is slipping into a sad memory of so many conflicts in this contentious region. Forty two years ago, following another cease fire, I returned from serving as a kibbutz labor volunteer in the Yom Kippur War.
Prior to my departure, I made countless phone calls to Jewish organizations and Israeli Government offices to determine what type of volunteer commitment could be made for the Yom Kippur War effort. Israelis are very direct and many calls ended suggesting I was too old for volunteer service. “The country needs young people, 18- to 24-year-olds; why not donate the price of an airline ticket to some deserving youngster.” Ignoring this advice I took temporary leave from my day job — consulting on the government’s war on cancer — and reserved a seat on EL AL to Israel, taking a chance on being useful in the war effort.
El Al
At the airport check-in I met a couple who would be my traveling companions. She was dressed in a floor-length Bedouin outfit and knapsack. He was long-haired, bearded and in jeans. They were traveling on press credentials from San Francisco. Their story, unfolded over lunch as I took journal notes of this adventure for letters to family and friends.
They live in a California commune. Benefsha is Jewish and married to Michael, a water resources expert connected with the University of California. She has a four-year-old son who is being cared for by her husband and the commune. Howard, her traveling partner, also known as Khurso, lives with them. They both work for an organization known as Hallelujah Three Rings dedicated to bring Jews, Moslems and Christians together. She has recently returned from the Mideast, having traveled in Egypt, Syria and Jordan. She writes “positive” news on Arab-Jewish relations. She danced for George Balanchine for many years, became a school teacher, and now works exclusively on this religious crusade. Khurso was a street actor in Boston and New York when she met him and recruited him to work for Hallelujah. He performs as a clown, Parsifal, in San Francisco parks where he passes the hat and at private parties.
I was entering a surreal experience.
. . . Deplaning, I expected dramatic change from peaceful New York to wartime Tel Aviv. There was no drama. Life seemed very normal with lots of eligible civilians walking the streets. The scene was so normal it included the expected taxi hustlers.
. . . I went to the men’s room to take off my sweater (85 degrees in Tel Aviv) and wash up. My head was down in the sink; when I brought it up and opened my eyes, there was an automatic rifles lying on the counter at eye level and pointing at me. The owner was also refreshing himself. I asked him about the war, but he could not speak English and kept saying “Good. Good.”
Through the airport bus window I noticed two passengers that were on the plane. The only difference was in their dress. From the waist up each had on a military shirt complete with insignias plus rifles strung across their shoulders. Below their waist they still wore the flared jeans and boots they had worn on the flight from America―instant mobilization in less than 25 minutes.
Tel Aviv
After a long bureaucratic process, I was assigned to kibbutz Netiv HaLamed-Heh. It is southwest of Jerusalem, about 15 miles as the crow flies, just south of Beit Shemesh.
It may be a language or cultural gap, but I had the distinct impression that Israelis I come in contact with are laughing at my desire to work on a kibbutz. They ask, “Why would you want to do that?” Sitting at a café on the Dizengoff Street promenade, looking at beautiful people, I can understand their reaction.
. . . Early in the morning an Israeli army friend from Washington, DC, in full uniform with his daughter and driver, came to pick me up. I felt guilty for taking him away from his military duties, using a volunteer army driver, and a mobilized private automobile. It was like a family taking their son to camp. I found out later that the driver was normally a government driver, but his office was closed for the war, and rather than do nothing he volunteered as a driver for Army personnel in Tel Aviv. He told me that three retired generals competed for the job of driving a Tel Aviv garbage truck. Since there was only one truck in the area they are taking turns. People are trying to outdo each other in the most menial job or giving up the most for the war―quite different from the café scene.
Netiv HaLamed-Heh
A fellow named Kristen, who is leaving the kibbutz tomorrow for Sweden after a six-month stint, showed me my room. I could probably spend many pages describing my first impressions of the accommodations. They are best visualized by the gulag images in Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. In other words, it was a hovel. Kristen helped me scrounge around the camp for a piece of foam rubber and a board to put on the bed springs. He will try to find a bulb for the naked socket hanging from the ceiling.
. . . Sitting in these surroundings surveying my 8x8-foot horizon, I am miserable and out of place. Overwhelmed with self-pity, I feel useless, separated from family and friends, with a growing realization that I am a fool for having come here. I hurriedly leave the dirty room for supper in the dining hall.
. . . I was eating alone when Zvi, the kibbutz Secretary, came to the rescues and proceeds to explain everything about kibbutz life, including their neglect of newcomers. After supper he finds the girl in charge of newbies who fixes me up with sheets, blankets, towels, etc., and also suggests I move in with Kristen for one night before he leaves. This is a much nicer room with painted walls, a chair, a coffee table and a lampshade. Zvi also takes me to the “union hall” where the next day’s jobs are handed out. He arranges for me to work in the metal chassis plant which turns out parts for electronic assemblies.
Machine Shop
The day starts at 6:00 am. At 7:00, on the dot, there is a coffee break for 10 minutes and at 8:00 we are driven you back to the dining hall for breakfast. The shop is about a half mile away and workers are transported in a broken down bus that gets towed by a tractor. There are only 12 factory workers at the moment, with 3 or 4 more leaving for the army. At 9:00 we are back at the shop for an hour’s work and another coffee break. At 12:00 it is back for a 45 minute lunch.
Since it is Friday, the shop closes early at 3:00 p.m. instead of 4:00, but not before another coffee break at 2:00. The coffee breaks are timed to coincide with radio news broadcasts, so everyone listens to war news.
Valley of Elah
The kibbutz is in a valley rich in history including the Biblical sites of the David and Goliath story, Roman ruins, and modern-day history of Arab Israeli conflicts. The kibbutz was an outpost in the pre-1967 boarder with Jordan. After the 1967 War, the annexed Arabs in the adjoining towns started to work for the Israeli settlements as laborers. They have not returned to their jobs since the current October 6 war started. The kibbutz members are not sure of their relations with these Arabs. Out of caution, they have discouraged me from taking a hike into the nearby Arab village. I had hoped to go on a photo trip to the occupied West Bank of the Jordan which is only a few miles away. They said it would not be wise in view of current tensions.
Netiv HaLamed-Heh
I put in my first full day of work today. I sat in front of a milling machine and cut grooves in metal plates to be used in communications equipment. The experience of doing factory labor is rewarding but the slow pace at which we work just does not convey the urgency of wartime. We have too many coffee breaks and a general atmosphere of normalcy. Everyone watches the clock, and precisely five minutes before quitting time you start washing your hands in order to leave on the dot.
. . . A volunteer came in this morning from a kibbutz on the Syrian border. He said life there is different. For one thing, at 5:00 p.m. when darkness falls, everyone hustles into a bomb shelter except for the guards and the commandos looking for Palestinians that shell the settlement at night. He thought it was exciting for a few nights to be sleeping in a big commune underground, but he was glad to come here for the peace and quiet and renew friendships that he made on his last kibbutz stay.
. . . The Friday dinner is special. I was invited to the house of a fellow shop worker for coffee and cake. I learned later that he is the camp intellectual. We spoke of kibbutz life which is the only life he and his wife know. We talked about their leisure time during which they listen to radio, read, and play with their child. This is enough for them.
I left them shortly before dinner to wash up. Arriving at the dining hall they again met me and asked me to sit with them. A few prayers were said before food was served. Friday is the only time a meal is served. The rest of the time it is a help-yourself system. The dinner was boiled chicken — nutritious but not my favorite.
. . . I attended the weekly kibbutz meeting. These meetings determine kibbutz life down to every last detail. What concerns the members most this evening is the allocation of duties during war time when so many members are away in the Army. Under this democratic system no one works for anyone. Everyone is an equal. Key people are elected to run a particular enterprise such as the orchards, chicken farm, and metal factory. However, they are not the bosses over workers. Workers answer only to the kibbutz as a whole. It is a complicated system of a partnership among all members. There is griping but no shirking from duties no matter how menial.
. . . It felt strange to work today on a Sunday, but this is like any other day of the week in Israel. The shop leader called us in to his office for a pep talk. He reminded everyone that there is a war going on and the fabricated parts are needed by the Army. Therefore, everyone will have to work an extra hour each day to meet the emergency schedule. We will start at 5:00 a.m. and quit at 4:00 p.m. It was suggested that we shorten some of the coffee breaks but that was turned down in favor of the longer day.
At Sunday’s supper several people turned to me and said “well, how long did you work today?” Work-time is worn as a badge. The amount of cotton in your hair, manure on your boots or chicken feathers on your clothes is your badge and stature.
. . . My personal routines are setting in. During work breaks I read the English Jerusalem Post. After work I take a shower and wash my clothes. The shower is a curtained area in an otherwise ordinary room. On the ceiling is a 3/4" pipe pointing down. When the water turns on, you feel sure the stream of water is going to bore a hole in your head. On the floor is a ditch to carry the water off. On the opposite side of this room are two sinks with no mirrors. I have a broken piece of mirror that I prop up on the pipes for shaving. There is a laundry for clothes but it takes a week and you are not guaranteed of getting your own things back. I clean my underwear and socks in the shower.
. . . The kibbutz is an interesting organization. Aside from the psychological effects of living separately but near one’s kids and devoting your life to work, the kibbutz is also a curious business enterprise. It functions as a corporation, and when it does a little manufacturing such as the machine shop, it competes on the open market for contracts. The bookkeeping ignores labor costs. No one earns a salary, and everyone has to work as long as necessary. The profits belong to the kibbutz to cover various services such as housing, food, insurance, education, taxes, entertainment, free cigarettes, 10 days off every year with a small expense account, etc. It is like a child who lives at home and does odd jobs around the house to earn his keep. The odd jobs, however, last 28 to 30 days per month (only one or two Saturdays off each month). Twice a week you get an old movie and two or three times you get an opportunity to use the “club,” a reading room with coffee, cookies, and conversation.
. . . I have talked to a couple of volunteers, mostly from Scandinavian countries spending several months at the kibbutz. They are true international nomads. One Dutch boy (25) had enough money for a one-way ticket to Israel. He can’t earn any money on a kibbutz, so in a few months he hopes to move to Eilat where he will sign on as a dock worker to earn money for his next adventure. He is thinking of working in India for a while. I asked him if he was ever planning to return to Holland. He said that some day when he gets tired of living like an international bum he will wire Mom telling her how anxious he is to return and she’ll wire him the money. In the meantime, he is using his sociology degree to pick cotton.
. . . This morning it was announced that an 18-year-old member of the kibbutz died on the Egyptian front. This is not the first such tragic news, and it confirms the continuing anguish of this war.
There are constant stories of personal losses. There is the mother who lost four of her six sons within a week. There is a family whose son was studying abroad when he was called up. He arrived at the airport, was immediately met by his military comrades and mobilized for action. One day later he was dead without even having had a chance to call his family on his return to Israel. Many families that have lost fathers, sons and brothers in the 1948 war, 1956 war, 1967 war, 1973 war . . . where does it end? Something more than a line in the desert sand is needed to solve this problem.
. . . The war enters into daily life in the most unusual ways. The kibbutz is a democracy with a majority vote deciding everything about life in every detail. Someone suggested that the TV be moved from the dining hall so that when movies are shown in the hall, some people will still be able to watch TV. The only other facility to seat a crowd is the bomb shelter or bunker as it is referred to here. When it was suggested that the TV be moved to the bunker, a young man got up and objected on the grounds that he had just returned from the Bar Lev line where he had been holed up in a bunker for several days with 30 men when the Egyptians overran his position. His experience of terror in the bunker and nightmarish escape to the Israeli lines convinced him never to enter another bunker for the rest of his life. The motion was tabled.
. . . There is an interesting caste system on the kibbutz. The top of the heap are those elected to run various enterprises. Next in the hierarchy are workers assigned duties. They have a voting right in how the kibbutz is run. Next are candidate members, people who have expressed a desire to join the kibbutz and are serving a one-year probation term during which the kibbutz decides on their membership. The decision is a majority vote.
Next are three types of volunteers: Young adult volunteers belonging to the NAHAL group (a paramilitary group serving six months before going to a border settlement and then returning to the kibbutz). They rank high as volunteers because they are potential candidates for the kibbutz.
The largest volunteer group is the 18–24 year-old foreigners that come to experience kibbutz life for six months. Very few of these volunteers are idealistic about Israel or kibbutz life. They are literally nomads (James Michener, The Drifters) spending time on a kibbutz because the weather is nice, life is interesting, social contacts. Several have been thrown out for using hashish and dope.
Lastly, there are volunteers who came for the war effort. There are now three of us. We are older and consider ourselves more committed but with no intention of staying on.
Kibbutz Children
The children at the kibbutz live in houses each with 15 or so kids, four to a room. The house has a large, well-stocked play area, a dining area, a bathroom facility, and bedrooms. The kids live here all the time except for the 4:00 to 8:00 p.m. period when parents usually walk or play with their kids. Each kid is clothed by the kibbutz and has a cubby for his belongings. I was there at 8:00 when parents bring back their kids and read them a story or talk to them for a few minutes before bed time.
The den mother stays with the kids for about 45 minutes till the majority of the kids are asleep or at least quieted down. Then she turns on an intercom monitor hooked up to a central office where a vigil is kept all night. If the kids cry, or any other disturbing noise is heard, a den mother is dispatched to the house. Otherwise, kids are on-their-own. I asked if kids ever walk out of the unlocked houses. They said it happens once in a while.
During the day the den mother and her staff (usually NAHAL members) supervise the play, instruction, eating, napping, and other activities required in caring for the kids. Kids are trained early on to cry into the speaker if they want something.
There are baby houses for kids from six months to three years. In these houses there is always an adult present. Each house has four kids and is fully equipped to care for the child’s every need.
Giving up of the children to another building is a must because of the small family apartments. Each family has a living room, bedroom, bathroom, and hallway doubling as kitchen and storage area. There are different sized, one-bedroom apartments, and their allocation is decided on the basis of the number of kids in the family because they need room to have the kids play from 4:00 to 8:00 p.m.
Netiv HaLamed-Heh
There is no heat in my hovel. It has wooden plank floors with a little space between each plank. The floor is on stilts, which means that wind works up under the floor and through the cracks. I have acquired an electric pot which comes in very handy for a warm cup of coffee in the evenings. The way you acquire things around here is just like one of those stories about prison camps where every item found has some use.
On wash day, I went to the place where regular volunteers get their work clothes. This place looks like a rummage sale with odds and ends of clothing strewn about. You try to find something that fits and isn’t too badly worn. No one worries about appearances while in their work outfits―the grubbier the better.
Machine Shop
As the days pass I find less to say because my routine has stabilized and the learning curve is leveling off. There is still quite a bit to learn about a machine shop and exploring new tools. Unlike America, workers here do not believe in long training and certification procedures before using a piece of machinery. A few simple instructions and you are left to yourself. I even tried my hand at welding. But that did not last long because it takes many hours of practice to get the coordination down between flame and rod. I was ruining more pieces than I was turning out, so I voluntarily asked for another assignment―hoping for a milling machine or drill press.
The work is tiring but satisfying. Every job starts with a big pile of something that slowly gets turned into smaller piles of something else. You can easily watch piles shrink and grow to measure progress.
Netiv HaLamed-Heh
This place is starting to grow on me. I just rearranged my hovel, moving the beds together into a double bed. I think out of deference to my age they are not putting anyone in with me. I now have a double bed, two coffee tables, a funny looking ottoman, a chair and a closet. My room also has curtains on one window, but not the other, and several shelves with various shaped wine bottles with decorative thistles stuck in them. Besides the Swede who left a lot of graffiti, the Japanese left me with one of those hanging origami things. I have an electric coffee/tea pot, and my most recent major acquisition is an oil heater.
. . . The work remains routine except we now start at 6:00 a.m. instead of 5:00. Too many people complained about the early hour. Every few days an Army official comes to pick up the parts we make. This makes me feel good because the completed products do not lie around the shop. I am told the Egyptians managed to destroy a large number of electronic assemblies of some sort for which we are building replacement parts.
. . . There is no letup in the mobilization and every Israeli is convinced that fighting will intensify soon. This is despite Kissinger’s efforts to reach a permanent cease-fire around some line in the sand. The Israelis, on the other hand, feel that Arab intent is to rid this area of a Jewish nation. They are not interested in lines no matter where they are drawn.
The announcement of the total dead, 1,854, has created a pall over the kibbutz. So many people have friends, relatives and lovers who are among the dead or missing. Everyone is personally touched by the war and the effect is rubbing off on me.
Tel Aviv
I feel very much a part of this country of my birth. In America my birthplace was an interesting curiosity item. Here it is a matter of pride and belonging to something that is being created and preserved at all cost. I do not lose an opportunity to tell people of my Sabra heritage in spite of an unmistakable American image and a language challenge.
These difficult to explain inner feelings combine with surface pleasures of my daily existence. The work is hard but satisfying, especially the knowledge that all these widgets I’m turning out find their way into the Army and the war.
All around me are young people (that is part of the enjoyment). They come from the winters of Scandinavia to the warm weather of Israel. They have no responsibilities or direction. They know that someday they will return to their homes and universities to prepare for their adult life but in the meantime they spend one, two or even three years wandering around as au pair girls, dockyard workers, farm laborers, kibbutzniks or whatever suits their fancy. Their total belongings fit into a small bag and for the rest they scrounge.
Volunteers scrounge very well and I am learning. I covered the bare bulb in my hovel with a chicken feeder. It is a funny looking plastic pail into which I have put a hole for the bulb. Now I have a red lamp shade. I swiped another plastic container from the dairy, which I use to wash my clothes, and I found string for a clothes line in front of the hovel. A couple more months on this place and I could have a real pad in Netiv HaLamed-Heh―gateway to the Med.
Tel Aviv
After work I hitchhiked to Tel Aviv. I met a Japanese boy right off and we hitched together. Not only is hitching legal, it is strongly encouraged by the government to aid soldiers and the general public during wartime when buses are not on schedule and many soldiers are traveling. The only difficulty is in the large number of hitchhikers at each intersection. Small cars pull up to the side of the road and immediately 10 people surround it looking for a ride. Naturally the most aggressive two or three succeed. Like everything else here in Israel those with the loudest voice, sharpest elbows, and complete lack of courtesy make out the best.
After several rides, including one in a small Datsun pickup that felt tipsy from the 9 people riding in the back, I reached Tel Aviv. Near Dizengoff Street, I made my way to a café. Watching people go by, I had the strangest feeling of belonging, not to elegant city folk, but to beautiful kibbutz hayseeds. I felt like a country boy who has come to the big city for the weekend. I even coughed at the foul air and cursed the noise and confusion of city life, wishing I was back in the serenity of Netiv HaLamed-Heh. These are strange feelings for one who has always enjoyed urban life.
Haifa
A cease fire was declared between Arabs and Israelis with Kissinger’s assistance.
I treated myself to an extravagance in the form of a room at the Dan Carmel Hotel. For $15 I have a fantastic view overlooking the city of Haifa. The bed is luxurious and the bathroom (complete with toilet seat) is a pleasure.
Driving here in a rental car, I kept stopping to pick up soldiers either on their way home or on their way back to the fronts. It seems normal to have four soldiers with automatic weapons sitting in the car with me. I was a troop carrier. I was headed north on a mini tour of Israel and many of the riders were on their way to the Golan Heights front. Surprisingly very few of the soldiers admitted to speaking English, and our only conversation was about the place I was to let them off.
I went all the way up to the Lebanese border at Rosh Hanikra. It has a restaurant and a beautiful grotto right on the checkpoint leading into Lebanon. For an American it is unusual and exciting to be at a hostile border overlooking an enemy. I guess locals take it in stride as part of their life.
. . . I headed east to The Sea of Galilee (Lake Tiberias) and the Jordan border. The countryside is starkly beautiful with many roads overlooking vast panoramas. The landscape is reminiscent of Southern California.
The eastern shore is close to Jordan and much more desolate. Roads were narrow, rimmed with barb-wire fences and signs warning of mine fields. A small road towards the water was blocked, so I tried to make a U-turn. What looked like a perfectly good solid shoulder, turned out to be soft sand. The right front wheel of the car vanished. Mud was up to the bumper completely covering the wheel. I jumped out thinking the whole thing was going to go the way of the front wheel, but it stabilizes with only one corner under. There was no way to back out. I was in the middle of nowhere wondering what to do. Suddenly a large Army van came along and stopped to my frantic waving. We tied a cable to the car and he pulled me out easily. I thanked him profusely and started back towards the West Bank.
The West Bank between Lake Tiberias and Jerusalem is a ride through captured territory, along the border with Jordan and through Arab villages that must harbor animosity toward Israelis. The road is bordered by barbed wire fences with signs warning of the dangers in straying off the main road. No one is allowed here at night and all incidents regardless of how trivial must be reported to the many patrol stations along the way.
Netiv HaLamed-Heh
Only a few days left at the kibbutz and I am already sad that the experience is coming to an end. This evening I was invited to a member’s house for coffee and chat about photography. He has an elaborate darkroom set up in the bomb shelter, which is perfect for a darkroom. The kibbutz pays for the equipment and materials as a cultural expense. In return he hangs his photos in the Club. Not a bad deal all around.
If all goes well I will visit Masada just prior to my return to Washington. Walking up the steep Masada trail is a rite of passage and another connection with a troubled history. My army friend has also promised a quick tour of the recently acquired Golan Heights. More troubles ahead. . . .
Chronology of Middle East Events (excerpts from Jimmy Carter’s, The Blood of Abraham)
11000 BCE First permanent settlements in the Middle East
9000 First archaeological evidence of a community at Jericho
6500 Wheel invented by Sumerians in the Tigris-Euphrates basin
5000 Egyptians develop a calendar based on the sun and moon
4000 Sumerian writings on clay tablets first appear
3760 First year of the Jewish calendar
3000 Egypt is unified as one nation
2900 Great Pyramid of Pharaoh Cheops is built
2300 Records in Syria and Egypt describe struggles in the region
1900 Abraham journeys to Canaan
1750 Hammurabi, King of Babylonia, legal system, “an eye for an eye”
1700 Judaism founded by Abraham
1525 Egyptian empire expands to include Palestine and Syria
1275 Moses leads Israelite exodus from Egypt
1025 Saul is anointed first King of the Israelites
1005 King David unites Judea and Israel with its center in Jerusalem
700 Ten tribes of Israel and two tribes of Judah exiled to Babylonia
536 Tribes of Judah in Babylonia are allowed to return to Jerusalem
167 Jewish Macabees revolt against Syrian control of Judea
142 Jerusalem liberated from Syrian control
63 Romans take Jerusalem and control Palestine
4 Jesus is born in Bethlehem
70 CE King Solomon’s Temple is destroyed except for the Wailing Wall
135 Romans take Judea and Jews exiled to Eastern and Western Europe
476 Roman Empire falls
570 The Prophet Mohammed is born in Mecca
1071 Ottoman Empire extends rule over Palestine and Syria
1099 The First Crusaders take Jerusalem
1187 Saladin of Egypt conquers Jerusalem
1228 German Emperor Frederick II 6th Crusade crowned King of Jerusalem
1516 Ottomans extend their rule over Syria, Palestine, and Egypt
1805 Egypt gains independence from Ottoman Empire
1861 Lebanon established as an autonomous Christian led district in Syria
1869 Suez Canal opens
1882 First Zionists from Eastern Europe arrive in Palestine
1901 Oil drilling begins in Persia
1917 British Foreign Secretary Alfred Balfour supports a Jewish homeland
1917 Arabs revolt against Ottoman Empire with the help of T.E. Lawrence
1920 Palestine established as a Jewish state under British rule
1922 League of Nations gives British mandate over Palestine and the French over Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq
1923 Jordan becomes a state under British a protectorate
1932 King Ibn Saud forms the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
1938 First oil is produced commercially in Saudi Arabia
1943 Syria becomes independent of France
1945 Lebanon becomes independent of France
1946 Jordan becomes independent of Britain
1948 Israel declared a Jewish state and invaded by Arab neighbors
1949 Armistice signed, Arabs remain in a technical state of war with Israel
1956 Egypt nationalizes Suez Canal, attacked by Israel, Britain, and France.
1967 Israel captures Golan Heights, Sinai, Gaza and West Bank of Jordan
1973 Egypt and Syria attack Israel on Yom Kippur.
1974 Sinai and Golan Heights troops disengage from the Yom Kippur War.
