Working the World

The setting sun lights the perpetual dust into a halo above the barbed wire fences surrounding this oasis. Inside, it is hard to imagine the miles of desert spreading out to the Mediterranean sea, and even harder to place myself in the western world’s Holy Land. There are no pilgrims, no Burkhas, and no praying masses here. Instead, I find myself amongst farmers and truck drivers, with faced carved in the same lines as that of my own father.
The smell of guava clings to the back of my tongue, coating my broken Hebrew in American sounds. This guava tree, heavy with overripe, suicidal fruit, has no more right to existence on an Israeli Kibbutz than I do, yet it stands proudly between the native date palms and olive trees. I am not so brave.
I hover, hesitant, as my neighbors settle in to drink in the sweet tobacco smoke of hookah and talk. My body longs for sleep, but my soul longs for some hint, some sign that Kansas is 6,000 miles across the sea. I want to make this foreign ritual part of myself - stapling it on like Peter Pan’s shadow. Yet, it is only with their urgings that I can bring myself to take a seat next to Tomas and try to follow his Hebrew-spattered English as he tells of his trip to Australia.
The leftover warm air presses against my temples as the night cold slips around our ankles and I quickly lose track of the conversation. Instead, I am hypnotized by the pulse of the community around me, as the members weave together in a dance of hospitality and leisure.
Through the evening, the entire neighborhood drifts in and out of our circle of light. Pulled in by the warm greetings of Tomas, they are plied with chocolates, hookah, beer and teas. They sit and drink, wrapping each other in casual affection, before rising to be drawn into the next gathering, a few doors down.
They pull me up into their dance and I drift home, catching on each rim of light, pulled inexorably into conversations with people fascinated by my transplanted existence. They offer me sweets, cigarettes, and laughter; sharing themselves without a second thought. Even my broken Hebrew cannot restrain their enthusiasm and I settle into more conversations and more circles.
It is late when I finally reach home, suddenly aware of an actual sound thudding beneath the night sounds - bombs exploding in nearby Gaza. They sound out a bitter backbeat under the sugared caress of the Kibbutz. The lighted barbs of the fence suddenly loom large and the taste of guava is finally wiped clean from my mouth, replaced by the double edged taste of Israel. With the dual pulses of community and war around me, I drift to sleep, my new shadow embracing me with both arms.