Dizengoff and Me

It was a gorgeous August day and we had nothing planned, so Mike and I decided to take an impromptu drive up to Lake Simcoe. When I was growing up, my family used to have a little cottage up on the east side of the lake, near an obscure little town called Beaverton, so we thought we’d head up that way and indulge in a bit of nostalgia.

Our route took us past Sutton ( almost as obscure as Beaverton), where we noticed a small sign advertising the annual Sutton Fair and Horse Show. This used to be the highlight of my childhood summers, and we took an immediate detour to check it out.

I was relieved to see that even after 60 years, (30 since we used to bring our own kids), it was pretty much unchanged, as you can see from the age of the map.

Of course when I was a kid, the main attraction was the little midway with its rides, the games that sucked quarters out of our pockets as we tried, in vain, to win some huge stuffed animal and, above all else, candy floss (also known as cotton candy). I used to adore that stuff —to my mother’s chagrin — with its billowy cloud of pink sweetness that melted instantly on the tongue. Heaven.

I realize now that I missed the point of the whole thing — the horseback riding events and the celebration of local agriculture, mainly livestock: horses, cows, sheep, goats, pigs etc, whose owners win prizes for particularly fine specimens. For example:

BUT — I most deeply regret missing out on events like this next one which, if we had come but a day earlier, I would not have missed for the world.

Lest you think that frog jumping is just some children’s pastime, I assure you it is a serious business. A quick internet search took me to the website of the home of modern Frog Jumping, —”The Cavaleros County Fair and Frog Jumping Jubilee” — in Frogtown CA, which is located at 2465 Gun Club Road (this being America after all).

“The City of Angels Camp held the first modern frog jump in 1928. It became part of the annual Fair in the 1930’s. The Top 50 frogs qualify for the International Frog Jump Grand Finals, which are held every Sunday afternoon of the Jubilee. The current world’s record was set in 1986 by Rosie the Ribeter. Rosie jumped 21 feet 5 3/4 inches. The cash prize for breaking the world’s record is $20,000.“

“Rosie the Ribeter” — Honestly, you can’t make this stuff up! (By the way, the latest world record is now 33 feet 5.5 inches. Sorry Rosie.)

To console ourselves at having missed out on this attraction, we headed to the Exhibition (aka Vendor’s) Hall where we were greeted by — what else?— a vast array of butter tarts. Butter tarts are to Ontario what hummus is to Israel. Unique to Canada, every little town in cottage country takes pride in their version: “The Best Butter Tarts in one of — Muskoka, Ontario, Canada, the World” — you get the idea. And for real fanatics there are butter tart festivals all summer throughout the province. For those who are not familiar with this delicacy, picture a pecan pie, with no pecans, and a slightly runnier centre with notes of caramel and butterscotch.

Some tarts are made with added raisins or nuts, but this is the subject of some controversy in the butter tart world, where traditionalists scoff at such an adulteration of the pure original. I am definitely in the purist camp. Mike is more liberal.

Imagine then, my dismay at finding this display: not in some city bakery, but here at the Annual Sutton Fair and Horse Show! Butter tarts with Reeses Pieces, Oreo Cookies, Smores, Turtles, blueberry cheesecake, pistachio creme, to name but a few! Who, in their right mind, would stuff an Oreo cookie into a butter tart? This is just wrong.

We picked up half a dozen of the traditional variety.

From there we wandered about and and bought a few more things. Mike picked up some local honey, fresh that day, and sold by a very charming mother and daughter. Who could resist?

I picked out some lovely laser cut pop-up greeting cards. By the time I had picked out five in order to get the sixth one free, I had lost track of Mike.

Which brings me, finally, to the fire blankets.

As I rounded the corner of the aisle leading back to the butter tarts, I spotted Mike holding three fire blankets, (yes of course there was a deal), chatting all the while to a very amiable vendor. These blankets are made of spun fibreglass and are used to smother small domestic fires, usually in kitchens, or in over-heated clothes dryers, barbecues etc. We have managed to live our whole lives without ever needing something like this, but once you get the pitch, you have to have one. Or three, in our case.

As I waited for payment to be concluded, Mike leaned toward the vendor and said; “I want you to know that we are taking these back to a war zone.” “A war zone?” The guy’s eyes widened and he called over his colleague who was standing near by. (I started to feel a bit uneasy.) ” Listen, these blankets are going to a war zone —tell us where!”, he said to Mike. (Okay, here we go.)

“Tel Aviv”, Mike replied. Then…

Big smiles all around; the first guy shook Mike’s hand, then mine; “This is great!”. The second guy then did the same, and said how meaningful this was, and how much he appreciated the support! (Who knew?) We felt good. They felt good. And now we have three blankets that I hope we never need.

On this note we left the Sutton Fair, and continued up the lake. We had a classic grilled cheese lunch at the old Cedarhurst golf course (built in 1922), we drove down Maple Beach Road, and had a look at the lake, and finally we ended up in Beaverton. Maybe everyone was at the Sutton Fair because the main street was deserted and had a bit of a sad air to it.

But, like every small town I know in Canada, pride of place was given to the war memorial. And this time I really looked at it.

The base has been restored, but the statue is the original from WW1; and if you look closely at the figure, you are reminded of just how young so many of these boys were. On three sides are listed the names of those who fell in the First World War, the Second World War and the Korean War (which I always forget). This seemed a fitting finish to the day, so we packed up and drove home.

As Mike reflected, “The cost of a carefree Saturday: Just $8.00 each for the Sutton Fair — parking included. Oh, and these young men.”

Small-town Ontario did not let us down.

Okay, it wasn’t that Moses, but so rare is it in Israel to have someone call themselves Moses instead of “Moshe”, that when our elderly winery owner introduced himself to us, for an instant I summoned up a vision of Charlton Heston and the Ten Commandments. He then went on to serve us tea and cookies, and the spell was broken.

A week ago Ben and I signed up to join a group of volunteers going to help out at a small family vineyard located “somewhere in the Judean Hills”. This was particularly appealing to us since it would be outdoors, it involved wine, and there would be a bus that would pick up volunteers from two locations: one not too far from me, and one right around the corner from him. What could be more perfect?

The first pick up (mine) was at 6:45 a.m. and we were sternly advised to be there early, since the bus WOULD NOT WAIT. And because we were all Anglos, we naturally complied, with lots of time to spare. The bus duly pulled up at 6:45, we got on, and the bus went nowhere. We waited. Why? Because the Israeli organizer was late. Of course he was.

From there the trip went smoothly; we picked up the rest of the group at Ben’s location, proceeded south and east, and eventually pulled up at the entrance to … Britannia National Park? Were we lost? The bus driver thought so, and would go no further. This set the tone for the rest of our time with him. Even by Israel’s standards, he was exceptionally uncooperative. Phone calls ensued, and eventually a rattletrap of an old station wagon appeared — driven by Moses himself — and it led the bus up a long entry road and into the park, through a modest parking lot, towards another smaller road leading down a hill. The bus driver put on the brakes again. Too narrow, too steep. No matter that Moses had welcomed many buses before. There followed more phone calls, more drama, and eventually he was persuaded to continue — but not all the way of course. So we got out and followed the station wagon on foot for the last few hundred meters, down into four small vineyards tucked unto a pretty valley which, for all we knew, might have been part of Britannia Park. Here we met Moses and his son.

To our disappointment there was no winery in sight. It turns out that it is located in a nearby Moshav, where they craft about 3,000 bottles of red wine per year. The vineyards themselves are scattered about and are home to three varietals: Petit Syrah, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. Below you can see Ben in front of some Petit Syrah , looking more and more Israeli every day.

We could see right away that the grapes had already been harvested, and the vines pruned, so it was not immediately obvious what we would be doing. We found it was very simple work, taking down the two levels of wires (hence the gloves) that had held the vines upright. (As the vines start to regrow they will be reinstalled.) Afterwards there was a bit of heavier work to do, pulling up irrigation hoses that had been grown over.

It seemed to me that the grass was unusually high between the vines which made it a bit of a challenge to actually find the irrigation hoses. Moses explained that it had been some time since the Bedouin had come by with their sheep and goats, who usually take care of keeping the place tidy. But we noticed them later, eating their way in our direction.

We were a pretty big group, so we made short work of our assigned tasks. As the organizers pondered our next move, Moses’ wife Dalia arrived to offer us more cookies. In some ways the two of them are a quintessential Israeli couple; his family fled Romania after the war, her family was expelled from Yemen, and here they are knitting the north and south diaspora back together.

Since small wineries are not the most profitable of ventures, Dalia has worked outside the business, including as a tour guide; so she had a wealth of knowledge about the area. She gave us a little talk, part of her way of thanking the volunteers for coming.

Past these vines, in the distance, you can see a flat topped hill. This is Tel Azekah, now an archeological excavation. In the past, its elevated location made it an excellent site for a fortified town, which is exactly what it was, off and on, since the Bronze Age, some 5,000 years ago. I say “off and on” because as the armies of numerous empires swept through the area, the town was destroyed and rebuilt many times.

The ancient Judean town of Azekah guarded the Elah valley which you can see to its right. It was there that young David, still a shepherd, slew the giant warrior Goliath with a single slingshot, in one of those epic adventures that led him to become the most famous King of Israel.

Dalia also told us that archeological work has uncovered evidence that grapes have been grown for wine in this very area, at least since the Bronze Age. And since I like to bring a story full circle, I welcomed her reminder that when Moses (the biblical one) sent scouts into the promised land — perhaps to this very spot — they came back with a single cluster of grapes so large it took two men to carry it. Forget milk and honey — there would be wine!

Back to the point of our visit, which was to help Moses and Dalia, our organizer conferred with the two of them and it was decided that we would get back on the bus and they would take us to another of their vineyards for a further couple of hours of work. This was fine with us. Personally, I was hoping these vineyards might be close to the winery, since one of my goals of the day was to actually buy some of their wine, for completely altruistic reasons of course.

We walked up the road to the waiting bus and its driver — ah yes…the bus driver — a factor that had been overlooked in this “other vineyard” plan. Needless to say he did not exactly embrace this change of plans. In fact he outright rejected it. On what basis I do not know. More discussion followed, then a call to the bus company. Moses and Dalia tried to intervene, and finally someone else showed up to try and talk sense into him. Since this was all in Hebrew and Arabic we did not exactly get the direction in which all this was going, but eventually we were told to get on the bus, and off we went — back up the narrow road, through the parking lot, along the park exit road for another 500 metres, at which point we came to a stop. We were still in the park.

There would be no more vineyards that day; that much was clear. On the other hand, we weren’t leaving right away either; so we sat at some picnic tables in the clearing, and chatted with the other volunteers. Dalia and Moses went off somewhere in their station wagon and when they came back, it was with a picnic! I honestly cannot say enough nice things about this couple and their hospitality.

Our Moses is here on the right. (I am on the left in the pink hat.) Dalia, sadly, is not in view. They brought us olives, and two kinds of pita sandwiches; one stuffed with cheese and one with a special tuna and egg salad recipe from Moses’ aunt’s diner in New York. (Apparently it was famous.) And there was wine. Yes! Their own wine, from their own vineyards. Perhaps a bit too early in the day, but that was our bus driver’s fault.

The wine was delicious. The volunteers were great. Our hosts were a delight. The surrounding biblical history was fascinating. And despite his best efforts our driver did not ruin the day — but he did cost Moshe and Dalia two hours of our work.

To make it up to them, Mike and I will, at the first opportunity, visit the winery and purchase copious amounts of wine. It’s the least we can do.

There are always pigeons.

It is spring in Tel Aviv, and pigeon hearts are aflutter. Love is in the air, mating season is upon us, and I have only now come to truly appreciate the origin of the expression “lovey-dovey”. Who could have imagined just how affectionate pigeons can be with one another? Canoodling, cooing, coy glances from the female, puffing up from the male — it’s really very charming.

But here’s the thing. All this romance leads inevitably to “the deed”, followed by baby pigeons and, surprisingly, a lifetime commitment between the parents. From there, we all know what happens next.

Real Estate. Yes, real estate. As is the case for any young couple at this stage of life, a safe home must be found, furnished, and defended against predators and fellow pigeons alike. And Tel Aviv is as competitive a real estate market for birds as it is for the rest of us.

Which brings me to our balcony.

We have, on our balcony, I am sorry to say, the “ne plus ultra” of pigeon residences; the most desirable place in all of Tel Aviv. Location, design, size — it has it all. When we moved in a year ago, there were more fly-in viewings on our balcony, than there had been human tenants looking at the apartment itself.

This prime property, nestled between our sliding glass doors and the exterior shutters, measures about 10 cm wide by about 2 metres deep. A “forever home”, with attractive high ceilings, it offers everything a newlywed couple could want: classy neighbours, lovely neighbourhood parks, room for the kids, and top of the line security. No wonder it attracted so much interest — and still does.

One prospective feathered tenant got stuck there one night when, unaware of its presence, Mike closed up the shutters. The next morning when he opened them up, the pigeon stumbled out, dazed and confused. Mike felt exactly the same way. And then the light went on. Now we understood exactly what our pigeon visitors were looking for.

Sympathetic as we are to the plight of young couples starting out, we had already signed a lease for this space — all of it — and we were not about to share it with a noisy young family of prolific poopers. So we had to take defensive measures.

This plastic bird of prey probably fools us more than the pigeons, but between it, and the spikes, we have kept the interior space pigeon free. Not that they — ever hopeful — have stopped swinging by for a look. Luckily, the space is too narrow for a flying entry, or we’d have a whole different set of problems.

Now that our balcony is more or less safe from incursion, we are enjoying the antics of another feathered pair who moved into a place — albeit not nearly as nice as ours — in the building next door. More of a starter home, it is tucked into a gap in a concrete window frame, adjacent to a long ledge, ideal for entertaining and sunbathing. It’s small but it has good outdoor space.

Mike calls it the pigeon hotel even though only one couple (and their occasional broods) live there. This is because almost every morning, a bunch of pigeons come by and line up on the window ledge, looking for all the world as though they are there to check in. They poke their beaks into the home, the owners come out, and a noisy argument ensues. Then they all fly off for something to eat. Sometimes they seem comically human, and we have become quite fond of them.

If you have made it this far, you will be relieved to know that I am finished with my tribute to the humble pigeon, and will likely resume posting on more serious matters next week.

On the other hand, there is a bird sanctuary on the Yarkon river that I have been dying to visit….

The “Gaza Envelope” is the name given to the collection of 50 or so Israeli communities located within 7 kilometres of Gaza. It is the area that was invaded by Hamas over 4 months ago, and subsequently evacuated.

A couple of weeks ago I had an opportunity to join a group going to the “envelope” to visit some of the sites of the October 7th attacks, and to volunteer at a barbecue for 350 soldiers at a nearby army base. Despite its close proximity to Gaza, I had no reservations about the barbecue at the base, but I did have some qualms about visiting sites of the Hamas attacks. Believe it or not, there is now a fair bit of tourism of this sort happening in the area, mostly by missions and groups from abroad, who are coming to bear witness to the atrocities of that day. But it was hard not to think of this as a kind of voyeurism, and that troubled me.

I muddled over this for a bit, but in the end, what tipped the balance was the chance to personally connect with the troops on the ground, (and a nudge from my friend Amy). We decided to go together.

It was a long day, and this is a long post (even for me). I have divided it into three parts: the Nova festival, Kibbutz Nirim, and the barbecue.

Re’im Forest (the Nova Festival) : Yossi

Had you been at the Nova festival at 6:00 on the morning of October 7th, you would have seen hundreds of little campsites like these scattered about the forest close to the main stage. I can’t help but be reminded of the hippie folk festivals of my youth. Peace, love and techno music.

At 6:30 the wailing of rocket sirens shattered the air, and the party was over. What came after is now well known, but bears repeating. Hamas terrorists stormed across fields towards a few thousand unsuspecting concert-goers, carrying AK 47 rifles and rocket propelled grenades. They came on foot, in trucks, and from overhead on gliders: a terrifying sight. Over 360 young people were brutally murdered that day, and another 40 taken hostage.

But when we visited, it was a glorious sunny day, a nearby field blanketed in lovely red and white wildflowers. This seemed wrong somehow. It should ever be dark and cold.

I took these these brilliant red flowers for poppies — how could I not in this context? Poppies for grief and remembrance. But they are actually anemones. They bloom briefly in the desert as they herald the upcoming spring, and are much beloved by Israelis who normally flock to the south to see them in February.

We were with Yossi, a ZAKA* first responder who talked of his own experiences on that never-ending day, pausing frequently as he looked away, overcome with emotion, even as he insisted that talking, sharing, and bearing witness was a kind of therapy for him. Some of what he saw, he could not bring himself to articulate — but from what he did say, you can be certain that the terrible reports of the atrocities you have read, or heard about, have not been exaggerated.

As if to emphasize the fearfulness of that day, his talk was punctuated by loud booms, which made us all a bit jittery. “Just artillery fire”, he said. “If you can hear it, it is ours. If it is theirs, you will hear sirens. Just drop to the ground. There is no time, and nowhere to run.”

After finishing the grim work of body recovery that ZAKA is best known for, Yossi has channeled his (considerable) energy into raising money and providing healthy food for the troops. He has personally organized and overseen 75 barbecues, funded by donors and prepared by volunteers (we were both); and every Friday afternoon he and his team send 4,000 Shabbat dinners into Gaza for the troops. When in the combat zone, soldiers eat only tinned food like tuna, chick peas and fruit, so the fresh cooked food that comes in is a boost for both health and morale.

This open area, the site of the concert stage, is now a memorial to those who were murdered and kidnapped. Here we said Kaddish together and quietly walked around.

Next we went to Kibbutz Nirim to meet Daniel, the “Ravshatz” (Coordinator of Community Security), and hear his story.

Kibbutz Nirim: Daniel

Kibbutz Nirim was founded in 1946, and the first thing we saw when we got there were two rusted out tanks from the 1948 War of Independence! A small piece of history. In that war, five Arab countries invaded Israel, and the fledgling community of Nirim was on the front line. Somehow Israel survived and so did they.

Nirim, one of the largest organic farms in Israel, is normally a pretty, pastoral place. Situated about a mile from the Gaza border, roughly parallel to Khan Younis, it was home to about 500 residents before October 7th. Now it is deserted; houses burned, ransacked and boarded up.

Daniel took us through to the edge of the kibbutz where the terrorists broke through what turned out to be a totally inadequate fence; and there he began to recount his experiences of that terrible day. Like most such accounts, it began with wave after wave of bomb warning sirens, followed by Whats App messages from other communities in the area, unanswered calls for help, and the sinking realization that the army was unable to come and defend them from the onslaught. They were on their own.

From inside his bomb shelter, crammed with family members, he went to retrieve his guns, gave one to his son, and tried to reach other members of his security team, also in their safe rooms, to see if any of them could access their weapons. In all, there were only four of them, lightly armed, to defend against what he had come to understand would be a full scale attack. He positioned them as strategically as he could on four different roofs, and said goodbye to his family and son, fully expecting he would not see them again.

Daniel: the most matter of fact, modest, hero you can possibly imagine.

The kibbutz was attacked by 60 elite Hamas Nukhba forces and dozens of Gazan civilians. The former were easily distinguishable by their green camouflage or black uniforms, and heavy weapons. Hamas concentrated on fighting, and the civilians on looting, destroying and kidnapping.

For several hours the four Kibbutzniks fought back, running down their supply of ammunition to a dangerous level, when suddenly Daniel’s phone rang. He looked down and did not recognize the number, but picked it up anyway. On the line was the pilot of a nearby IDF Apache helicopter. “Did he need help?”, the pilot wanted to know. (What a question.) A few minutes later two helicopters showed up and the tide was turned. Honestly, it would make a great movie script.

After another few hours, the army finally arrived and they went house to house, routing out the remaining terrorists, tending to the wounded, putting out fires, and evacuating the residents. Out of a community of five hundred, five members were killed and five taken hostage, a low toll by comparison to neighbouring communities. His son, his family and his fellow marksmen all survived. But for them, and a pair of pilots, it could have been so much worse.

“What will happen now?” we asked as we stood by the burned out youth residence looking across to the Gaza border. In the distance, we could see the characteristic dome and minarets of a large mosque. He told us they want to repair and restore their community, and that at least some of their members would return — maybe in July. The kibbutz is rebuildable, he thinks; but their hopes for a peaceful coexistence with their Gaza neighbours? Not so much.

Barbecue at the Base

Our most important destination, and also the final one, was an army base nearby. In addition to helping wth the barbecue, we were asked to bring candy, cigarettes, and most importantly letters, preferably from kids, and ideally, hand-written. I could do that.

Armed with a missive from my eight year old grandson Theo, who lives in Bermuda, I went looking for a soldier to give it to.

Note the action figures from left to right — Theo, IDF soldier, Hamas bad guy.

This letter was quite a big hit, and is now posted up by this soldier’s bunk, although I am not sure if I successfully explained what, and where, Bermuda is. In fact, since I was speaking Hebrew, I’m sure I didn’t.

Just next to where this photo was taken were three huge tanks. I could not help but notice how things have changed since the 1948 versions. A couple of the young women in our group got a VIP tour of this one. Not an item on my “to do” list.

And then there was the meat. Five hundred pounds of it. And five mid-size charcoal grills which are just being prepped in this picture. Missing from this photo are about a zillion hamburgers and hotdogs on another table, and more chicken and steak on the bench behind. We would have needed to stay there all night to cook everything, but thankfully by about 7:30 our shift was up and it was time to go back to Tel Aviv. It took me half an hour in the shower to get rid of the smoke in my hair.

Despite my early misgivings, what I took away from this visit was not the scale of destruction, or accounts of atrocities (of which I needed no convincing), but rather the strength of character of the individuals we met, and their willingness to share their stories. There were many such heroes on October 7th, and it was a privilege to meet a couple of them first hand. It is important that they not be forgotten.

This includes the soldiers, a very impressive cohort drawn from a wide range of Israeli communities. On the front line, they see first hand the incredible amount of weaponry amassed all over Gaza, not to mention its 400 mile tunnel network. They face urban warfare above and below ground, on an unprecedented scale, against an enemy hiding both within and underneath the civilian population. There are casualties; there are injuries.

Despite all this, they are resolute, positive, completely committed to the defence of their families and country — full of purpose and camaraderie. They may well be the most upbeat segment of Israeli society today, which seems counterintuitive given the risks they face every day.

We were supposed to be there to boost their morale. In truth I found the opposite to be true. They boosted ours.

*ZAKA , an acronym for Disaster Victim Identification, is an organization of highly trained volunteers, some 3,000 strong, who are spread across Israel, and on call 24/7. It was established initially in response to mass terror attacks like the bus bombings during the Intifadas. They have an international wing that flies to the sites of earthquakes and other disasters.

I am a confirmed urbanite, and until now my only fruit picking experience was long ago at Chudleigh farms (near Toronto), where we would take the kids apple picking each autumn; always finishing with at least 10 times more apples than any normal family could ever use.

This changed last Tuesday, when I joined the ever growing cohort of urban volunteers helping to bring in the harvest in Israel. Every day there seems to be a new organization making this happen. They sponsor buses, connect with agricultural communities in need, cover insurance, and sign up urban volunteers to pitch in. From major organizations like Leket and Birthright, to synagogues, and now municipalities like the city of Tel Aviv, they try and find a fit for everyone. One enterprising organizer even came up with the idea of having a “singles only” bus. What more romantic way to meet your soul-mate than picking vegetables? Who needs Tinder anyway.

My day started at 5:30 (yes, in the morning!), with a quick coffee and a piece of toast. It was still cold and dark, so Mike gallantly walked me over to the Reich community centre where our bus was due to depart at 6:30. (And to our surprise, it more or less did.) As recommended, I wore a long sleeved shirt, long pants, “high shoes” (not to be confused with high heels), and a few extra layers; it’s cool in the morning.

We were 18 in total, ranging in age from 60-something to 80-something, heading to Moshav Ahitov, about an hour’s drive north and east. The Moshav* was established in 1951 by Iraqi and Iranian Jews, and among its claims to fame is that it supplies some 70% of Israel’s cucumbers. This seem incredible since cucumbers are a staple in the Israeli diet — and there are more than 9 million of us! Driving in, it was impossible to get a sense of how such a volume could be grown on one Moshav.

Granted the greenhouses are huge:

And there are a lot of them…. Here is an aerial view of Moshav Ahitov.

So there you go — cucumbers for a nation.

But enough about cucumbers: our mission was to pick, sort and pack grape tomatoes. This was very well suited to our cohort, which is not to say it was without effort.

First, we had to climb down from the cucumber greenhouse (pictured above) and across to the tomato greenhouse, which is when we all understood why “high shoes” were recommended. I wore boots, and I still have not been able to remove all the mud that stuck to them. Once inside the greenhouse we were on solid ground again, but since the ground was covered in bits of tomato vines and twigs, the mud on my boots expanded into a mat-like mess, extending well beyond the boots themselves. I felt like I was gradually growing roots.

We were then given a pair of rubber gloves and a box of plastic cartons, along with a short tutorial on our duties for the morning. Our job was to pick tomatoes that ranged in colour from light orange (not yet ripe) to fully red. We were to make sure that the lighter ones went into the bottom of our plastic cartons, where they would continue to ripen. Then we filled up the top few layers with perfect red ones; first because they were ripe and ready to eat, and second because they look better to the buyer. (Marketing 101.) We picked, sorted and packed as we went along. These cartons, by the way, are what you see in every grocery store, but I have never seen anyone buy a whole one; a few at a time is all anyone can afford. (And now I know why — they are very labour intensive.)

These are my first six cartons; I think I got them just about perfect if I say so myself. (And I do.)

We picked for a little over three hours, and in that time I filled 10 of those plastic cartons (including the six above). I felt a bit inadequate about this until I got home. I had purchased one of my cartons (at a token price), and I decided to weigh it. One carton weighed in at 1.2 kilos. So 10 cartons were actually 12 kilos (I am feeling better already); and that would be equivalent to 26 pounds (okay I am amazing…); and then I worked out that that is about 2,000 little tomatoes. No wonder I was so exhausted. It wasn’t just me by the way; the bus was noticeably quieter on the way back. ( And despite our best efforts re. mud removal, the floor was a mess.)

By the way, I figure if I picked 12 kilos, then collectively our group of 18 picked about 216 kilos (476 pounds) — which seems amazing, but that is how the math works out. And that is a lot of tomatoes! Kol Hakavod to the Reich Centre pickers.

We each got a row and this was mine. There were at least 10 rows running in this direction, and another set behind me.

Notice that the tomatoes grow from ankle-height to about 7 feet tall. There was a lot of stooping down and stretching up going on, and it wasn’t long before I had removed all my layers and was cursing the long sleeved shirt. It gets very hot in greenhouses…who knew?

Although the tomatoes look pristine on the vine, your hands can get very dirty if you are not wearing gloves (as my friend Amy can attest), and after a morning of picking, the rest of you doesn’t look so good either. It is not that the tomatoes are dirty; it is the vines and stems, some of which ended up in my hair. How, I don’t know.

Sooner than expected, we were finished for the morning and on our way home, many of us with one of those 1.2 kilo cartons of grape tomatoes, (about 10 times more than we would usually buy). Just like our apples so long ago.

It was a hugely rewarding experience for all of us to feel that we were doing something concrete, however modest, to help the farm sector, and by extension, the country. We all agreed we would do it again in a heartbeat. Maybe next time we’ll get to pick some of those cucumbers.

* A Moshav is a type of cooperative agricultural community consisting of individually owned farms, which operate with shared harvesting equipment, storage etc. A Kibbutz, on the other hand, is more communal; all assets are pooled, and resulting wealth and income are shared. Originally 100% agricultural, a kibbutz today may also specialize in industry or tourism.

Given “the situation”, it is not unreasonable to wonder how it is that we came back to Israel when we could have stayed in the relative safety of Toronto, or even Florida. We did not make the decision lightly, nor without some concern. As the fog of those first terrible weeks began to lift, our friends here were divided in their opinions. Some advised us to stay safe in Canada. Others felt we would be happier in Israel doing something practical, rather than sitting at home reading/watching the news and wringing our hands. In this they were right, even though the “doing something” did not materialize quite as I had imagined.

Our decision was, in many ways, due to a mix of emotions rather than reason: a feeling of solidarity with our people here, an irrational sense of guilt in having it easy when Israel was in such crisis, and a desire to make a contribution to the war effort (something my historian husband never thought we would say in our lifetime). We were also shocked at the ugliness in our home town, with mobs of pro-Hamas demonstrators breaking all kinds of hate laws with apparent impunity. (Not to mention the small matter of winter weather.) As it happened, by the time Air Canada was ready to be be flexible with our ticket, we couldn’t wait to leave. I should be clear that this did not require any special bravery on our part; by mid-November the situation on the ground was much safer, and our resilient fellow citizens were doing what they have been doing for the 75 years since the State was established; getting through yet another existential challenge.

When we got here, I knew that there would be a tremendous need for volunteers to do all kinds of work, especially helping to bring in the harvest. One of our friends pictured us gathering strawberries in the fields, and indeed I did hope I could do something along those lines. This romantic notion did not last long however. Strawberries are grown on the ground and apparently you need good knees for picking them; ladders (and balance) are needed for tree fruits; a car is needed to get to the farms; and so it went. This was not going to be so simple.

I then joined some friends who do a regular gig chopping vegetables in a professional kitchen preparing meals for soldiers. For this, I have the requisite skills. As it turned out, the kitchen was closed on the day that we went! Undeterred, I subsequently got into the kitchen’s WhatsApp group, only to find that all the volunteer spaces were booked out as far as the eye could see. They were however starting a farm harvest group…

So here is where I ended up:

This is the current home of “Eran’s Angels” a huge volunteer-run depot located in the underground parking lot of Building 1 at Tel Aviv’s Expo grounds. At one end of the lot they take in donations of both used and new items. In the pictured area, they sort the items into broad categories like childrens’ clothing (must be new), bed linens and towels (both new and used), adult clothing, toys, and so on. And from there it gets more granular. In the bedding and linens area where I usually work, the new items are destined for evacuees, and used items for soldiers in the field. Sheets, towels, blankets, pillowcases, comforters, and duvet covers are all sorted by size, then folded, packed and labeled so that orders can be filled efficiently.

Volunteers can come and go on their own schedule any time from 11:00-4:00 and there are lots of them. The first day I was there, I worked with a young woman from America who had taken three weeks vacation specifically to come over to volunteer. She is not by any means unique. There was another group of young men who were on an organized volunteer mission; and more and more groups like that show up every day. Often there are more volunteers than there is work.

There are pros and cons to working in a space like this during a war. On the one hand we are in an underground parking lot, so if there is a missile attack we are already effectively in a shelter: no need to make a mad dash to safety. On the other hand, the warning siren is also happens to be located right down there. These ear-splitting devices are designed to alert whole neighbourhoods to incoming rockets; and trust me when I say that you don’t want to be standing next to one when it goes off — which it did — the first day I was there. For our overseas volunteers, it was their first direct experience with the war, and they were very shaken up; unlike the Israelis who just kept working. And the booms of the interceptions were also louder than usual, which didn’t help.

We found out later that there was good reason that the interceptions sounded so close. They were. The rockets actually came further north than usual, as far as Hertzliya. School was just out, so the kids hit the ground just as they are trained to do. Somehow, in all the reporting on the Gaza war, most of the media neglects to mention that in addition to holding the rest of the hostages, Hamas is still firing rockets at Israel: emerging from somewhere in their 300 miles of underground tunnels where they have stored massive amounts of weaponry.

The last time I went to the Eran’s Angels depot, the oversupply of volunteers was official, and I had nothing to do. This is actually a good news story, as Jews from all over the world are now coming in droves to help out. But before them came the cowboys. Yes, cowboys! I am not sure how many of you have seen this story, but they made quite an impression here. https://www.jns.org/american-cowboys-work-the-israeli-heartland/

However, I was going to have to find somewhere else to contribute. Luckily, my local community centre (home of my yoga classes, Zumba, and 5K walking group) has come to the rescue. In coordination with the city, they have arranged for us to travel to a farm to sort and pack produce, which I am assured is a very age appropriate activity. We leave at 6:30 in the morning. The first session is next Tuesday, and I’ll let you know how it goes. To be continued…

“The situation” (“Ha Matzav” in Hebrew): This is how Israelis refer to the whole terrible sequence of events that has unfolded since October 7th. The terrorist invasion, the bloody massacre of over 1200, the kidnappings, the thousands injured, the over 12,000 rockets raining on Israel— I could go on but I won’t. This is made all the worse by the subsequent outpouring of anti-semitism and overt support of Hamas (with all its barbaric actions) on the streets of much of the West. It took decades for Holocaust denial to creep into public discourse; it took but days for the events of October 7th to be rewritten, downplayed, justified, and outright falsified across social and mainstream media.

But the situation has also united the country in an overwhelming response across many sectors of society. On October 8th the army called up 250,000 reservists; over 300,000 showed up. The volunteer sector has stepped in to fill the vacuum left by a government totally unprepared for a disaster of this scale. https://www.timesofisrael.com/in-stunning-response-15000-volunteers-fill-leadership-vacuum-to-help-victims-of-hamas/ Hotels in the centre of the country have been filled with over 125,000 evacuees from the north and the south of the country. Volunteers are bringing in the harvest as best they can, packing medical supplies, cooking meals for soldiers and evacuees, tutoring, teaching and entertaining evacuee children. And so it goes. It is a very impressive society.

Because of the situation, it took Mike and I a lot longer to get back to Tel Aviv than we had planned. Our flights were cancelled and rescheduled several times and it became evident that Air Canada would not resume its Tel Aviv service any time soon. In the end we persuaded them to change our outbound flight to Athens, and from there we flew El Al into Ben Gurion. We made it back three weeks ago and were not entirely sure what to expect. The airport was a ghost town, its corridors lined with pictures of the hostages. Our luggage showed up in no time, and there was all of one taxi waiting at the stand, the driver grumpy and unobliging — if anything more so than usual. Arriving at our building, we were relieved that our apartment was in good shape, the grocery store next door was open, and from our balcony we could see the bright green parakeets were still flying — so far so good.

We got back just as the “pause” was about to go into effect, and with it, the agonizing daily drama over the partial hostage return — if and when, how many, who, and under what conditions. After two days glued to the television, I could not bear to watch it anymore in real time — I had to read about it the next day. The stories that are now emerging about what happened in captivity, especially to the children, are beyond harrowing. The “pause” ended when Hamas stopped handing over hostages, and resumed rocket fire. There were still 137 hostages in captivity at that time. Even though the agreement was to release all the women and children during the pause, in the end about 20 of them still remain, including a toddler and a 10 month old baby. (Nobody wants to think about what the young female captives have been going through, and many fear they won’t survive to tell of their ordeal. )

On the subject of rocket fire, there was a siren alert just as I was writing this, so we dropped everything and went to the safe room for the required 10 minutes. We are lucky that in our new place there is a safe room on each floor, with chairs set out so we can wait out the barrage. We just need to go across the hall within 90 seconds, which is the time between the siren and expected rocket impact. It is a small room, but with only 4 apartments per floor there is space enough. This a real luxury relative to our old apartment where the safe room was four and a half floors down. Getting down there in 90 seconds took no small effort (as we learned in the 2021 attacks), and the small basement room had to accommodate all the tenants, dogs included, from 16 apartments! (It got stuffy very quickly.) After a few nights with several rocket barrages and multiple trips up and down the stairs, we took to going halfway down and relying on the relative safety of the stairwell.

In general, the rockets are intercepted by the Iron Dome, so you hear the siren, and shortly after a series of booms overhead from the interceptions. There is always a real danger from falling shrapnel, and of course with a 90% success rate, some rockets do get through — as happened very close to Ben’s apartment early in the war. A small commercial building was demolished — luckily it was vacant.

As an aside, living with the threat of rocket fire brings with it a number of personal dilemmas that you might not think about. What if you are taking a shower? (Make it short and keep a robe handy.) What should you wear to bed? (Nothing skimpy and keep pants handy.) What if you are out walking? (Try and find a bomb shelter, and failing that, lie on the ground and cover your head.) What about on a bus, or in a car. (Get out fast. And then follow the instructions for walking).

Now that we are out and about, seeing our friends and neighbours, I find that here is a deep undercurrent of grief and anxiety in everyone I meet. This is a small country and everyone has a personal connection to someone who was kidnapped, murdered, injured or called up. This is not to say that they are mopey. Their natural resilience and warmth still bubble up, especially when greeting someone for the first time since the situation began. And it seems to me that the hugs are longer than before. But no one is really happy.

Despite the situation, there is an odd sense of normality that has returned to daily life, at least here in Tel Aviv. Stores are open as are most cafes and bars, though many with reduced stock and shorter hours. Public transit is fully operational including a new light rail service. (Note to Toronto; it was constructed in 8 years! ) All my regular classes/activities are back on, although during the first week we were back, the studios were still in a temporary location on the parking level of a nearby office building — a ready made bomb shelter, so to speak. We have now moved back to the community centre. And of course, the sidewalks are as hazardous as ever — thanks to the ever present motorized bikes and scooters that prefer dodging pedestrians on sidewalks to using bike lanes. Actually, now that I think of it, it is the pedestrians that do the dodging.

Reservists are obliged to keep their weapons with them at all times, even when on their days off, and even if not in uniform; so there are more very impressive guns in evidence than usual. This can be particularly striking when the reservists are young women dressed as they usually would going out to a bar, or as Mike noticed on the train when he sat next to a young soldier; kippah, tallis, backpack, M16. You get the idea.

Everywhere you go you are reminded of the hostages, of which over 130 are still in captivity. The central hub for this is “Hostage Square” which is actually the large plaza in front of the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. This is where the empty Shabbat table has been located right from the beginning, an initiative replicated in so many public spaces around the world. But that is not all that goes on there. A week ago Friday, I noticed (on one of my many Facebook groups) a call for volunteers with cars to go to undisclosed places, pick up an item at 1:00 and to return it at 3:00. It turns out they were collecting Torah scrolls from synagogues across the city: one for each hostage.

Other installations go up all the time as artists and community members seek a way to keep this issue front and centre. Hostage families are often on site during the week, and always on Saturday night when a regular march and demonstration take place in an effort to pressure the government and other world bodies into doing whatever it takes to bring their family members home. Their agony, now over two months into the situation, is unfathomable. I don’t know how they get up in the morning; I’d be curled up in a ball of worry and misery.

With all of this, many friends ask me why on earth we would choose to come back here. It’s a good question — which I will do my best to answer in the next post.

Signing off for now, from here in Tel Aviv.

Every November and December a small posse of parakeets moves into our neighbourhood in the north of Tel Aviv. I confess to finding their vivid green colour a very cheering sight as the days get shorter and winter moves in. They do a lot of flitting from tree to tree, usually in groups, so it can be quite an eye-catching sight, especially from our fourth floor window.

Since they only stick around for a few months, I naively thought that this was a stop on their migration from north to south. I subsequently learned that they do not migrate, at least not very far. My friend Amy has parakeets around too. They live near her in the summer months in the park by the Hilton Hotel, which is in front of her apartment; and then they migrate to our place in the fall — a distance of about 750 meters.

I have no idea where they go from here, but I have figured our why they come by when they do. They like olives, and we have a very big tree right by our apartment. The olives ripen in November and December, and once they are all eaten, the parakeets move on. Perhaps around the corner to the kumquat trees.

And sadly, it turns out that they are not native to Israel; but were released from captivity some 70 years ago , and this being the Holy Land, they duly followed the injunction to “be fruitful and multiply”. Now they are considered an invasive nuisance — but I still like them.

While they are perhaps the prettiest, and certainly among the boldest, of birds that inhabit Tel Aviv, they are not the only ones that I have admired. Along the Yarkon river there are a variety of multi-coloured ducks; and in the many little parks that are tucked into this “greener than you think” city you can spot other lovely bird species. Not that you can necessarily move fast enough to photograph them.

This one was easy however — a night heron lurking in a little pond — just waiting for the right moment to pounce…

And pounce he did…

Very fresh sushi. That bird fits right into the Tel Aviv vibe.

On the same day, in the same park, there was a beautiful kingfisher that posed long enough for me to catch him on my phone. I had never seen one in the wild before, (if you can call Tel Aviv “the wild”, which I admit is a stretch).

And to add to the magic of the day, there was also a hoopoe, the national bird of Israel, but sadly he flew away too quickly for me to catch him. So instead of the real thing, I give you a lovely rendering of a hoopoe and kingfisher together, by my friend Linda, who stitched this panel for our Torah Stitch by Stitch project.

For anyone reading this post, who might have miraculously missed my many stories of this project, the best review of it can be found at this link: https://www.timesofisrael.com/it-takes-1400-strangers-from-around-the-world-to-cross-stitch-a-torah/

And since I have somehow found my way to this subject, I am happy to advise that after no end of Covid-related delays, our small but incredibly dedicated assembly group have now completed putting the second half of our stitched Torah together, so the whole 100 yards will be ready to show. Now, if only I had a football field…

From parakeets to the Torah — this is what happens to your mind when you live in Israel.

When I first heard that Haifa celebrates the “Holiday of Holidays” in the weeks leading up to Christmas, I assumed it meant that Christmas was the holiday of all holidays. In this country that seemed a bit of a stretch, and as it turned out, that is not at all what the phrase is meant to convey. What it means is, that in Haifa, the three last weeks of December is the Holiday that celebrates all three holidays: Christmas, Hannukah, and Ramadan —

—just as you can see here in this beautiful display of a Christmas tree, a Hannukiah, and a crescent moon and star above a lantern.

Now it is well known that Christmas and Hannukah often coincide, but Ramadan? Yes, I learned that Ramadan moves back every year by some 11 days; and every few decades it falls in the same general period as Christmas and Hannukah. So Haifa, which is home to all three of the Abrahamic faiths, decided to call this period “Holiday of Holidays” and to honour them all at the same time. An uplifting and admirable story that you will never see in the international press.

Just last week I was invited to join a small group of women on a day trip to Haifa, on Saturday, where we would see the Holiday of Holidays’ festivities first hand. The main attraction was a guided tour of Wadi Nisnas, a mixed neighbourhood noted for its winding streets, colourful market, and a plethora of hummus and falafel places, each claiming to be the best in Israel. (Some likely are.) This was to be followed by lunch, a Christmas parade, and a museum visit.

This neighbourhood of about 8,000 residents, is home to many Christian families and has a number of very pretty churches. One of them was piping out a bevy of familiar Christmas carols all in Arabic — a first for me. Our guide introduced himself as a Muslim Palestinian, originally from a village slightly north of Haifa, and he presented a narrative that simultaneously spoke to the friendly coexistence of Jewish and Arab residents in this particular community, while making it very clear that the Nakba (disaster), as the founding of the state of Israel is called by the Palestinian community, is still keenly felt. He was walking fine line, sometimes uneasily.

On our tour we saw several public art installations by Jewish and Arab artists scattered through the streets in the neighbourhood’s “Museum Without Walls”. We walked through the market, tables piled high with Christmas decorations and toys. Everything was colourful, glittery, and definitely more “Walmart” than “Hallmark”.

In Wadi Nisnas, Santa Claus lives in a fancifully decorated house up a steep hill at 6 Hadad street, and since every child who comes to see him gets a present, the lineup stretched several blocks. We gave up on getting close; and such is the ferocity with which places in line are guarded, that even trying to cross over it from one side to the other required some negotiation.

It’s a heart-warming story really. The Santa who lives in the house started the tradition many years ago with just 4 presents, and now it’s a year-long project to ensure there are over 4,000 gifts available, some for the visiting children, and some for residents in need.

In general, our day was a classic example of under-planning. Take our “you’re on your own” lunch. It was on the tour schedule; but on the busiest Saturday of the year, it would have taken a proverbial Hannukah miracle to find a restaurant, or to work your way to the front of a long line-up at the many take-out stalls. (As a result, I was unable to do the necessary research to recommend the best hummus or falafel in Israel. Maybe next time.)

Then it turned out that the museum visit scheduled at 5:00 would not work because the museum closes at 4:00 on Saturdays. Going earlier was possible, except that it would conflict with the Christmas parade which was supposed to go from 3:30-5:00.

As it turned out, the museum was a modest little venue, so we left just in time to see the “piece de resistance”, the Christmas parade!!

It began with its star attraction, a thoroughly one of a kind Santa:

Santa driving a golf cart, Christmas tree on the back, elf of honour at his side, cigarette on the other side). Honestly it was worth the trip for this alone. (In the absence of reindeer, there was a drone flitting over the crowd, a security precaution I assumed.)

Following behind was a series of deafening drum bands, each playing with an unfortunate level of enthusiasm. There were children, teens, and young men, all in various scout-type uniforms. There were even a few bagpipers which felt incongruous in a charming sort of way. It is possible they were actually piping, but nothing could be heard over the drums. A scant 20 minutes later the 90 minute parade was over. This was a mercy really.

Except we had a lot of time to kill before the bus was due to pick us up. So we headed over to the German colony, one of my favourite spots in Haifa; a wide street, lined with red-roofed buildings, running about 6 blocks up to the foot of the glorious Bahai gardens. It was beautifully lit and decorated for the season, and had been closed to traffic for the day. So there were people. Lots of people. Masses of people. I did not know Haifa had this many people. But it does. And they were all there.

And this is why, much as there is both charm and inspiring symbolism in the Holiday of Holidays, I do not recommend going on a Saturday.

And to conclude this post on the holiday season I leave you with the 2022 Guinness World of Records Title holder of the biggest lego menorah ever built. Right here in Tel Aviv’s Dizengoff Centre! Dozens of volunteers. 130,000 lego bricks!

Happiest of Holidays to all!