The last time I was in Israel was four decades ago -- a newly-minted high school graduate. On the advice of a much-loved English teacher, I went to live and work for four months on a kibbutz where some of her relatives lived, midway between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. While many kibbutzim have drifted out of existence, their communal way of living no longer popular in this increasingly consumer-oriented society, "my" kibbutz, called Na'an, is still alive and thriving -- home to some 1300 people. Yes, like many of the other surviving kibbutzim, they've privatized some of their operations and have added some country club-like amenities. But when I paid a visit, I found many things surprisingly the same. Husband Jeff sportingly agreed to accompany me on my nostalgia tour of Na'an. We picked Shabbat, when many businesses are closed in Tel Aviv. I went prepared with pictures on my phone to prove I had once lived and worked there, in case security wanted to keep me out. And I hoped those pictures would lead me to reunions with members of my kibbutz family. When we arrived, the security gate was formidable looking, but the first car that came along let us trail them in. Among some impressive new buildings, I found the old dining/multi-purpose hall, looking exactly the same and hosting a chess tournament. A hundred or so people milled about. The first person I approached wasn't a resident, but he directed me to a woman who looked to be in her 70s who might be able to help me. She didn't speak English, but she looked at the picture on my phone of me with my adoptive kibbutz mother, father and brother. Her steely expression brightened. "Yes I know them," she said, nodding excitedly. "They are my family." I quickly engaged a translator from the chess spectators and learned that, as I had expected, Chayala and Aryea had died some years back, but their son Giddy was still living on the kibbutz with his family. The woman promptly dialed him on her cell phone. He was away from the kibbutz and wouldn't be back for some time. From her end of the conversation and my limited understanding of Hebrew, I gathered he didn't really remember me. Who knows how many kibbutz volunteers his family had hosted over the years. Jeff and I pushed on to find the cement shed out near the chicken coop where I was housed with some of the other volunteers. And lo and behold, we found it -- abandoned but recognizable. A rooster crowed incessantly in the background. And at that moment, among all the strangeness and after four long decades, I felt very much at home.
1 Comment
amy Tercek
6/18/2014 12:36:01 am
Great Blog!! It's so fun to read, Susan. Really really awesome! Keep traveling and please keep writing about it. This is so entertaining and interesting. I'm afraid we're going to have to hire your guide for a trip there. Wow!
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