It was 1968, the year after the 6 Day War: a conflict between Arab states and Israel; a war that had been smoldering in the wings for years after Israel was first declared to have sovereign nation status in 1948— coincidentally, the year of my birth. In ’68, mines littered the landscape and there were daily reports of children picking them up, flinging them aloft and losing a limb in the process.
I was living at home with my parents in The Avenues, and in my first year at San Francisco State College. I had yet to decide a major. I was biking to class most days. My hair was long and blond—a cross between folk singer and surfer. Patchouli, cannabis and incense were the aromas of the day. My peers were batting around alternative life styles. I had inhaled marijuana and though I coughed violently the first few times, I mastered the task, learning how to mask the distinctive scent with spearmint gum and toothpaste. The ever-stoned Japanese gardener on campus wore a small round mirror in the middle of his forehead as a reminder for us all to look within. Initially, I may have snickered, but I know it frightened me. I was, in fact, more comfortable skimming the surface of my soul, rather than excavating the interior.
I was curious, vulnerable, and immortal; a trinity of trouble. I felt that the drug influence was at odds with my educational pursuits, and while I had always wanted to go to college, that goal in and of itself did not make an ambition. I felt equally threatened and intrigued by the counter-culture as it slapped like waves against my plans for a degree.
My old friend from elementary school was also in her first year at SF State.
Cella’s parents had migrated from Poland in search of religious and political freedom. Cella was the first of her family to attend college. She, too, had recently affixed a mirror on the forehead which she removed before returning to the home she still shared with her parents. Like mine, her parents were increasingly concerned about their daughter’s ability to straddle independence and higher education. Together, Cella and I would attend more campus events than classes. We were both receptive and curious -- as vulnerable as pollen on flowers. Tribes of new friends formed while sharing joints and dense discussions about existence, begging newly formed questions about life, purpose and the meaning of fulfillment.
It was at precisely this time that Scholomo Carlabach, a folk singer, rabbi, and spiritual leader, was touring college campuses for potential recruits to the Kibbutz life. I had heard of the Kibbutz and associated it with living off the land. I knew that the Kibbutz was basically a farm. The Hebrew word for “communal settlement” is Kibbutz. The concept of this rural community dedicated to “mutual aid and social justice,” as Carlabach put it, sounded progressive and egalitarian. My friend and I were thrilled with what these inspirational farmers accomplished: transforming dry barren desert land into prosperous fields and orchards. Tilling the soil and tending crops sounded romantic and healthy. It would be a drug-free environment with no partying or late nights; no seeking higher truth through substances. We were 19. Once we renewed our passports, we took a leave from school and were in route to Tel Aviv. After the foggy San Francisco climate, Israel’s heat felt oppressive. I wore my blond hair in braids. Fair-haired, I stood out among the Sephardic and Ashkenazi, and I worried that I came across as more Aryan than American. In some ways, my looks made me feel novel and different, but I also felt like a complete outsider peaking in the window, hoping for a warm welcome.
Cella and I were assigned to a large Kibbutz in Naot Mordechai, Upper Galilee, with miles and miles of apples and grape orchards. It was a self-sufficient community with childcare, kitchen and laundry facilities and a small warehouse where the fruit was stored and cardboard boxes were constructed. Despite a lifetime of chaffing against rules and restriction, I relished the rigid routines the Kibbutz imposed: (up in the trees at a chilly 4 AM, to pick fruit before the sun claimed the entire sky, breakfast was at 6:30, and then back to the trees until 11:30 lunch.
I had mastered operating the apple-picking machine. Surrounded by 8 baskets affixed to this contraption, I would stand in its center and push a lever to grab the fruit. When the machine stopped functioned, which happened frequently, I’d simply wait until break time when the lead would come to my aid.
On the weekends, I did my laundry in one of the industrial-sized gray cement tubs that lined the walls of the wash-house. It was a short walk from the bunkhouse to the laundry room, but the sun was bright and heat was pressing down on my head. I looked forward to the windowless washroom where it would be cool and quiet. As I opened the door, a whoosh of hot air poured into the dark space.
Two older women were standing side by side at neighboring sinks. Their tanned arms were immersed up to their elbows in sudsy water. For an instant, I saw the inner side of one of the women’s arms. Five numerals had been indelibly inked to her skin, the serial number still legible. During the Holocaust, tattoos were only performed in one location, and that location was Auschwitz. For that moment in the washroom, I caught sight of history. And what did they see? A tall, blonde-braided enemy; an entitled girl invading their space and occupying their new homeland? Whatever it was, they looked at each other, and, without a word, left their clothes in the sinks and walked out. Their reaction left me stunned and feeling as though I had been a septic shock to their senses. I was that which should be fled from, I was the American Aryan on Israeli soil. I was a painful flash of their worst memories, a reminder of forced labor in coalmines, stone quarries, and, ironically, farms. I was a reminder of family separation and slow starvation.
Wordlessly, they abandoned their clothes and left me alone to look within.