The Table We Share: A Livnot U'Lehibanot Galilee Fellowship Experience
It was a sunny, clear day in early January and from the balcony of the Livnot Campus overlooking the beautiful hills of Tzfat, I and a group of 25 other volunteers were able to see dark shadowy patches in the distance where Katyusha rockets had left their mark. It was my first face to face encounter with the remnants of last summer’s war with Lebanon. As I stood shivering in a heavy wool sweater against the unexpected cold of winter, I realized that until now, all I knew about war I had seen on TV or the Internet from the safety of my apartment in Canada.
Our group had gathered at Newark airport a few days earlier with the goal of re-building bomb shelters and nurseries in Northern Israel. We were fifty strangers brought together by Livnot U’Lehibanot, an organization that has recently added a volunteer fellowship to their list of programs in order to respond to the growing need for help in rebuilding that area. Half of our group were New-Yorkers heading to Kiryat Shimona. The other half consisted of Americans and Canadians heading to Tzfat, the mystical heartland of Judaism situated in the mountains of Upper Galilee.
My vivacious roommate, Miriam, and I were already inseparable. “Can you believe we’re here?” we kept asking each other. “We’re here, in Tzfat. It’s so beautiful!” We turned away from the dark patches which seemed foreboding and out of place. In truth, it was hard to imagine that a few months ago this landscape, with its sand and white cobblestone streets full of people and lined with vendors and art stores, was deserted.
But there were reminders. Every now and then we brushed past soldiers in their green IDF uniforms, young boys and girls eyeing the goods for sale, with rifles hanging nonchalantly at their sides. At the women’s seminary around the corner, a rocket had destroyed the roof and some of the stone walls.
The seminary was one of several projects allocated to our group. On my first day volunteering there, even before turning into the narrow entrance, I could hear the sound of women’s voices singing in spontaneous harmony. They were another group of volunteers, already veterans of their current incarnation as a construction team. They wore long skirts and boots. Cotton scarves protected their heads from the sun and kept their hair out of their faces. Some wore goggles to prevent chips of flying mortar and dust from getting into their eyes. They worked with hammers and chisels to fix the corridor that led to the courtyard. When we arrived they smiled and continued their work without a fuss, accustomed to the comings and goings of different people. Inside, another group of boys and girls was filling gaps in the walls with mortar. We were quickly put to work carrying buckets of cement and rubble to the roof, mixing cement, and hammering and chipping away old mortar to be replaced with a fresh batch.
In the middle of the courtyard was a picturesque lemon tree, untouched by last summer’s Katyusha. One day, I rummaged through my bag looking for an apple. “Why don’t you have a lemon?” asked Gabi, our Israeli supervisor. He was also an artist and had a boutique near our campus.
I frowned. “Too sour for me!” I answered.
“Just try it.” he suggested. “It’s sweet like an orange. You will like it!”
I picked a lemon and peeled it. As a precaution, I licked the juice off my fingers before taking a bite and smiled in unexpected delight. It had the delicate flavour of Citronelle combined with the sweetness of the ripest navel orange.
“Told you!” he said, grinning.
By the end of the day, my roommates Sarah, Miriam and Esther and I were back in our chilly room sharing our adventures. Miriam had been sent to paint bomb shelters. She was overcome by paint fumes and spent her time outside – the perfect opportunity to get to know the locals.
“I had a sweet lemon straight off the tree at the seminary!” I said. It seemed so trivial a thing, but for some reason, it meant the world to me.
“I went to dig out a hole in the ground!” said Esther, the tiniest person in the group at barely five feet and weighing less than a hundred pounds.
“A hole for what?”
“I don’t really know exactly. I think it’s supposed to be a bomb shelter. Anyway the coolest thing happened! While we were digging, we discovered a strange other hole in the ground. Two of the guys put a flashlight helmet on my head and lowered me down because I’m the smallest. It turns out that there is a huge, undiscovered cave down there! A cave that we discovered, can you believe it!”
“There’s no more hot water!” Sarah called from the bathroom. At that moment our malfunctioning heater came to life with a reluctant purr and warm air thankfully began wafting through our room.
We had just finished lunch around the table we shared in the dining hall where we spent time together, watching the morning news, attending afternoon seminars, and playing music in the evenings. It was here that I most strongly felt the connection that existed in our group. As we sat around the table, passing plates, telling jokes and exchanging daily gossip, I sensed that these simple shared tasks guided our minds to something outside ourselves. Our differences, which in some situations would have been glaringly obvious, receded into the background. Whether American or Canadian, kosher or non-kosher, male or female, this sense of purpose united us and became the thread of the tapestry weaving us together.
After lunch, Shmuel, the program director, spoke about Tzfat when hostilities broke out with Hezbollah in the summer of 2006. “During the war, most of the residents fled Tzfat, including some whose skills would have been greatly appreciated, like nurses and social workers.” Shmuel recounted. “They went south to the cities to stay with friends and family. They were replaced by volunteers, many of whom had left the safety of their homes.” The gentleness of Shmuel’s voice and his simple, unassuming manner contrasted with the directness of his tone. While in Tzfat he learned that his daughter was on her way to help. He did not dream of stopping her, although he knew it was risky. To Shmuel and his family, this was the only response imaginable. Who else would care for the elderly and sick, left behind to face the terror of war alone?
“Some people were so immobilized that they could not even leave their homes for the bomb shelters.” he explained.
“So what happened when the rockets hit?” somebody asked.
“When the sirens went off, some volunteers stayed to comfort those who couldn’t leave their homes, often simply holding hands in silence as the rockets landed, praying that they would come out in one piece.”
As Shmuel spoke, I felt a lump form in my throat. During his talk, he did not paint pretty pictures or boast of his remarkable acts of giving. He simply stated facts and they moved us. Heroism is so common in Israel that it isn’t even considered anything special by Israelis. It comes with the territory in a country that has been in and out of war for 61 years. But us North Americans are amazed and deeply touched by these recounts.
He spoke of miracles - not people walking on water miracles, but the kind that happens when, for example, a rocket lands right in between two houses, or just far enough away to spare a group of lives, or smack in the middle of your roof - but turns out to be a dud. And these aren’t exceptions, he explained. Over 450 rockets hit Tzfat, yet casualties and infrastructural damage remained remarkably low.
Still, precious lives - sisters, mothers, uncles, friends - were lost. Families still grieve, buildings were damaged, morale was affected, and tourism, a crucial part of the economy, took a nose-dive.
As he spoke, it struck me that this was one of the most significant times of my life. Many felt the same, extending trips by days, weeks, or months to continue exploring. Miriam and Sarah are still in Israel. Esther and I have since returned to Canada.
Toward the end of our stay, the four of us were lying on our cots for another short night’s sleep. We were all exhausted and Esther and I were sick, yet we had no inclination to stay in bed, every day waking up to discover our newest adventure. Esther was coughing uncontrollably. “I’m on breakfast duty tomorrow!” she croaked in an impossible rasp. Esther had become the honorary head chef of our group.
“Make French toast.” said Miriam.
“Is there any lychee yogurt left?” I asked
“Esther! You need to sleep! Why don’t you sleep in?” asked Sarah.
“I am the head chef!” she answered.
As I dozed off I marveled that the four of us had become so close in this short time. In our room, we had set up a table. On it were books, fashion magazines, gum, cough syrup, Ricola cough drops, Tylenol, mini chocolate bars - a motley collection of miscellaneous articles. Over time, things appeared and others disappeared. Werther’s Originals replaced the mini-chocolate bars. Tylenol disappeared as band-aids appeared and Halls replaced the Ricolas. The table had become our collective. Nothing placed there was off limits. It was the table we shared.
