Today my brother and I went south into the Negev to prune a farmer’s lemon trees. We arose early, leaving home at 6.00 and arriving at the farm by 8.00.  We volunteers were a mixed group, some from Jerusalem, some from nearby towns. The Brothers Goldenberg appeared to be the sole foreigners. None of us looked agricultural. But I have learned not to underestimate Israelis, their stamina, their drive, their idealism.

The orchardist hadn’t expected us until 10.30; we hung about, some of us disgruntled, others philosophical. At 9.15 the farmer arrived in his lemon grove where he found uswaiting, sweating, gruntling. He addressed us at length. His heart, full of pain, had a message to discharge. He spoke first for himself: You might imagine it’s a small thing that twelve volunteers come here to work for a short time. It is not a small thing. Since October 7, I have no agricultural workers. The Thai people have been ordered home by their government. The other workers who worked outside in the field have not been replaced. Without volunteers like you, I would despair.

The farmer then took on the voice and the persona of Israeli Agriculture. He embodied its agony, its crisis. He had a smooth baby’s face, bronzed by the sun. He spoke for the State, he spoke for the soil, its crops and its custodians. His pain was palpable, and we, we few, we city slickers, wewere his hope. The baby face looked as if it might, at any moment, melt and weep.

We knew nothing about the task ahead of us. We received instructions in Hebrew, which we hoped we understood. We were to prune away the wild spring growth that looked so fresh and green. Apparently these so-promising andexuberant suckers would never bear fruit, but would drain the soil and the lemon tree of its life, meaning water. 

At first we set about this task with bare hands. Lemon trees grow a myriad of thorns which pierce the skin of city folk. This is how the countryside punishes us for the soft lives we live in the metropolis. Many scratches and pinpricks later we received gloves; now our hands were somewhat protected. Later still, secateurs arrived. Suddenly the job seemed possible. The temperature rose and rose, we sweated and we drank, we pruned away delinquent growths, we cursed thorns whenever necessary, we turned a disorderly grove into rows of orderly lemon trees that would now turn precious water into precious fruit.

At intervals the sound of aircraft flying high above reminded me of our proximity to a war. I found myself singing those hopeful and elusive lines of the prophet Isaiah, 

lo yissa goy el goy herev,

lo yilmedu ohd milhama…

Nation shall not lift up the sword against nation,

Neither will they learn war anymore…

As thought leads on to thought I realised I was replacing manpower in a time of war.

Now the words I heard were: 

Where have all the young men gone?

Gone for soldiers every one

when will they ever learn…

Was I enabling a conflict, or simply helping a farmer to grow lemons? I could not escape a sobering truth. I came here to help the State. The State was defending its people, it was defending my people, my relatives. It was fighting for me, and, lemon by lemon, I was enabling it.

I realised that among all the great losses in this region, losses that hurt all the children of Abraham, there exists a further tragedy, personal in scale, and timeless. It is the tragedy of the reluctant recruit, the one who finds herself a participant in a conflict. People on campuses who mean well, who think little for themselves, and who know less than little, might read this and decide I am a war criminal. So be it.

After a little longer than three hours of hacking away the green, we were commanded to stop. The reason? It’s 37 degrees. In truth we had not noticed. 

On the way back to Jerusalem, our minibus made a bladderstop. During this interval, a twenty-seven-year old social work student and I fell into conversation. Her name, she tells me, is Gilly.

Where do you come from Gilly?

Metullah.

(Metullah, one of the very northernmost settlements in Israel! Metullah, sitting beneath Hizbullah’s rockets, Metullah, now flattened, emptied of its residents. What Gilly did not need to tell me is her state of internal exile, continuing beyond these past eight months.)

In the old song of the early state, we sang: 

mi’ metullah ad ha’negev…

from Metullah in the far north, 

to the far south of the Negev…

Gilly’s exile was sung before her birth.

What do you think will happen, Howard?

I fear we will fight this fight again. And again. And again. As we’ve been forced to for the last seventy-five years. 

Gilly’s face fell.

Why do you say that, Howard?

I look at the history of the State.

Don’t you see hope?

I considered, then I answered. Yesh Tikvah. Tamid yeshtikvah. There is hope, there’s always hope. Sometimes we have to search for it. Give me your email and I’ll send you something hopeful.

Gilly paused, then she said: I have hope. What gives me hope is this…she waved towards her fellow volunteers… After eight months, people are still volunteering.

My own contribution to Gilly’s state of mind comes from my son. I sent her the link to his story.

https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/orange-picking-the-jewish-family-and-why-we-cant-be-beaten/

https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/orange-picking-the-jewish-family-and-why-we-cant-be-beaten/