Two weeks ago, Andy and I spent a meaningful Shabbat in the Negev desert at Kibbutz Ketura, a Kibbutz not far from Eilat. The Kibbutz was founded in the 1970s by alumni of the Young Judea Year Course program, and is best known for its guest houses at which many Israel programs spend time, as well as for the tours it offers of the nearby region. Andy was able to participate in programming during the day on Thursday, including a visit to a youth village and some solitary reflection time in the desert. Because of my previous commitment to ulpan, I took a bus to the Kibbutz separately and met the group later in the day.
This trip marks the first time I have traveled by myself anywhere outside of Jerusalem, and although I was nervous, I surprised myself with my command of the Hebrew language and general knowledge of how public transportation works (thank you, New York). The most unfortunate part of the trip (other than the person sitting next to me falling asleep on me), was that I had no one to share my thoughts and reflections with, so I will share them now.
As I was sitting in the Tachana Mercazit (Central Bus Station) working on some ulpan homework, a strange thought crossed my mind that both scared and intrigued me. I briefly considered, for a very very brief moment, that it might be very rewarding to join the IDF (Israel Defense Forces). As much as I love and support Israel, and will defend it with my words, I have never before thought about joining the army, so as I sat waiting for my bus, I explored my feelings a little bit, as all good social workers are trained to do.
I had arrived for my bus an hour and a half early and had the opportunity to people watch. As previously mentioned, a lot of the people in Israel are soldiers. I thought I noticed that the soldiers walked around with a different air from the rest of the people in the bus station—it seemed to me that they held their heads a little higher than most others and exhibited a sense of pride greater than that of the average person. My very fleeting desire to join the IDF stemmed from a curiosity about what it must be like to feel the pride that one can only feel when they know that they are doing something not just meaningful and beneficial for their country, but absolutely essential. I thought it would be great, just for a moment, to have a taste of the pride that I imagined Israeli soldiers feel everyday while wearing their uniform. Maybe I was projecting, or assuming, or imagining it, but it’s a feeling I hope to one day be able to experience through the line of work I have chosen to enter.
A few short hours into our very long bus ride, I found myself staring out the window at sand. Lots and lots of sand. Every once in a while, a bus stop would appear, out of nowhere, at the side of the road, and then it would disappear in the distance to give way for more sand. And I found myself wondering, who uses those bus stops? They definitely are not the closest bus stops to anyone’s home—there are no homes for miles. How do people get there? What is the point of a bus stop in the middle of nowhere? I’m sure I could come up with some deeply profound symbolism for these middle of nowhere bus stops, but instead I think I’ll just wonder about them more…
I was fortunate enough to arrive at Kibbutz Ketura just as the sun was beginning to set, and the view was breathtaking! From the Kibbutz, it is very easy to see the Jordanian border. The Kibbutz’s date fields are located across from the Kibbutz itself, and just beyond them are the Jordanian mountains, behind which the sun was setting. I have only seen a sky with pinks, blues, and purples like the one of the sunset I was witnessing in two other places—at Camp Ramah during the summer, and at the Grand Canyon. I started thinking about the Grand Canyon, and it’s middle-of-nowhere-ness. It’s quite easy, while there, to commune with nature, but also to feel a little lonely. Despite the throngs of tourists, there’s something deeply unsettling about how large the Grand Canyon is and how small we are in comparison.
Looking from within the Kibbutz out towards the Negev desert, I began to feel the same way. The Kibbutz is surrounded on all sides by desert and mountains, and it seems as if it’s a little oasis of civilization in a giant crater of nothingness. And while that’s deeply powerful and mesmerizing for a while, it’s also quite awe-inspiring in a way that makes you feel extremely lonely. I began to wonder what else was out there—what is just past those mountains, or even in those mountains? Are we really alone out here or are there animals, or even people, we don’t know about? What is the meaning of life?
Spending a weekend on a Kibbutz in the desert reminded me how I feel when driving around camp—what is the draw for living in a neighborhood or community such as this, that is so far away from everything and so reliant on each other. And I think Andy hit it right on the nose—it’s community. Why do humans do anything, ever? To be accepted by others and join up with a group. Humans are social creatures and we need each other whether we like it or not. The Kibbutz, like camp, is an intentional community of family and friends who are guaranteed to be there for moral and emotional support. I guess living in the desert might not be so lonely after all.
I still don’t know what those bus stops are there for…
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