Like the colchicum flower and Amir Peretz, the kibbutz is a unique Israeli phenomenon. No where else, including Papua, New Guinea or Nicaragua, will you find a place where its inhabitants loathe each other but still share a dining hall, a place where you must beg the head of transportation department for a beaten-up Subaru so you can drive to the neighboring town, a place where everybody owns everything but yell at you if you pick apples from the tree by the library or "borrow" a popsicle from the store.
I, unfortunately, am a product of such a place and – knowing what you're going to ask me – no, I didn't put a cat in the bread-slicing machine, I didn't rape goats and, yes, we showered with the girls until 3rd grade.
Home, sweet home (Photos: Merav Natan)
The kibbutz I grew up in managed to maintain its cooperative character so I figured it would be a perfect example for Martin to see. Unlike other kibbutzim that have been privatized and now resemble every other alienated suburb (except for the numbered stickers on the residents' clothes), in my kibbutz, they still have communal dining, a dairy barn and all children still live together in one house.
In order to maximize Martin's kibbutz experience, I made some calls and arranged a busy, tight schedule for him. I didn't know if his gentle soul and soft hands can handle the burden, but I decided it was the best way to show the spoiled brat that there's more to life than college. The best way to do that – aside from a month's deployment to Gaza – is taking him to the morning shift in the dairy.
Milking in your 'Gap'
So, we checked in at the barn at 4 am. I, in my dirty work pants and a shabby coat and Martin in his Gap khakis, and started milking the cows. At first he hesitated but pretty quickly he began hooking up the animals to the machines with the expertise of a native.
That was the moment when a devilish scheme evolved in my mind. I waited till one of the cows stepped on the milking machine and Martin shoved his head between its legs in an attempt to entangle the tube. With terrifying precision I turned on the radio, full volume. The cows, reacting instinctively, freaked out, raised their tails and went to bathroom.
Not a music fan
Martin's expression said it all. It was a combination of insult, surprise, desperation and helplessness. "Yes, that's how it feels to have a cow crap on your head," I thought. I grabbed him by his collar and yelled: "You wanted to see Israel, didn't you? This is the real Israel! Now you know how an Israeli feels when he gets back from reserve duty to find a seizure notice from Social Security in his mailbox, how an Israeli feels about paying 50% income tax and have someone else steal it, how he feels when he is sent to guard 30 settlers in the middle of nowhere, when his water supply's polluted, his country sold to corporations... "
At the point my speech came to a holt as an ungrateful cow peed all over me. No big deal, I'm used to it.
Communal education
After we finished milking, and had a long shower, we took a stroll around the kibbutz. I showed Martin the tractor shed, the petting zoo, the children's house. He asked about communal education: "It must have been fun, ha? Growing up with kids your own age in one house and no parents around."
I asked if by "fun" he meant waking up in the middle of the night from a nightmare and calling the night watchman whose reply would be: "turn your face to the wall and stop whining," and running to your parents in the dark. He stared at me bewildered.
I realized Martin was dealing with an overdose of reality, and that I need to tone it down a bit, so I told him about promiscuous nights, smoking joints by the pool, driving the tractor without a license, and breaking into the communal kitchen. When I rewrite my own history, I come out bigger than life.
Bonfire of the vanities
At night the guys organized a barbeque in Martin's honor. The highlight was, of course, the traditional belching contest. Foreign guests are not a common sight, so we upgraded the usual repertoire of "how many times can you say 'Ali Baba,'" to belching Canada's 10 provinces, not including Newfoundland and Labrador.
The future head of transportation?
Martin was surprised to learn that contrary to appearances, most of the guys worked in the high-tech industry. The guy wearing the hippy pants is actually a team leader in an international computer-chip company. I doubt if his bosses are aware of his belching capabilities and I also doubt if they know he is giving Martin and me the company's car tomorrow. Hey, someone needs to show Martin the North.
Next week: What's between a gazer and a waterfall, Lake Kinneret and the Golan Heights? Martin and NB do the north.