A little over two weeks ago, I left Jerusalem with eight others from Year Course and headed to Arad, a small city that sits on the border between the Judaean and Negev deserts, to work at the nature reserves of Ein Gedi and Masada. As we drove along and most of the people on the bus began to drift off, I sat watching the scenery change. As the stone walls of Jerusalem turned to farmland, rolling hills, small neighborhoods and finally the desert, I thought, “Now there’s no going back.”
I have always had a certain, shall we say, fascination with the desert, and had this far-out idea of how it affects people. I had read so many books and accounts of people going to the desert to “find themselves,” and I pictured my new life much like that—me sitting alone in the wilderness contemplating my existence. However, that night when we unloaded our stuff and moved into Merkaz Klita Yafit, an absorption center for new olim (immigrants to Israel), I knew my experience in the desert would be so much more real than I could have imagined.
My day-to-day activities vary, but each morning at 6 a.m., my roommate Stacey and I wake up to catch the 6:40 bus from Arad to Ein Gedi. There, we work on the nature reserve doing everything from restoring ancient terraces to cleaning up the grounds. We are given plenty of time to hike and enjoy the views of the Dead Sea and the Jordanian mountains.
So most of our time is spent outside of where we live, and consequently we don’t spend much time getting acquainted with the place. But last week our madricha informed us that we would be commemorating the last night of Hanukkah by lighting candles with the group of 50 Ethiopian Jews that lives in our building.
As we entered the room, everyone clapped and invited us to sit with them. Our madrichim addressed the room and explained the significance of us, Americans, and them, Ethiopians, coming together as Jews in Israel to celebrate this festival. We lit the candles and said the blessings together in Hebrew and in their native Ethiopian language, Amharic.
Afterward, the Ethiopians stood up and sang us two songs, one they had translated from Amharic to Hebrew and another in Hebrew. Meanwhile, the boy sitting next to me was translating everything into English for me. They seemed so excited to be with us and continuously reiterated how much they appreciated us coming to be with them.
I had always seen the Ethiopians walking around the building, and what I noticed most about them was how they always wore their kippot and always greeted us with a shalom. They have been in Israel for only a few weeks but are already learning Hebrew and attempting to integrate into this eclectic society.
The next day we returned to work at Ein Gedi, and once again got home at around 5:30. But instead of moseying off to our rooms and napping, we hung outside with our fellow building mates. Since then, we have had several choppy conversations in Hebrew and English with the Ethiopians, and now also the Russians in our building.
People always say, “No matter where you go, people are people.” I always considered this statement to be somewhat true, but never until now could I have pictured myself becoming close friends with people I always felt so withdrawn from in my American bubble.
After living for a few weeks in the desert, I have realized that I will probably not attain enlightenment or finalize all of my philosophies on life. But what I do know is that I’m experiencing what it’s like to live in a remote corner of the world with people who come from many other corners of the world. I think I will learn even more about myself by learning from, and about, the many others who have, like me, chosen to make a new, somewhat temporary life here. Though the desert may seem like a barren place, the few people who live here bring in enough life to fill the empty space.
*Yes, this title is a reference to the Counting Crows album. If you haven’t heard it, we recommend checking it out!
Delicious
Digg
StumbleUpon
Facebook
Google
Technorati
