On the Kibbutz

Despite the area’s controversial standing, a kibbutz in the Golan Heights was my favorite part of Israel. On the kibbutz, the air was damp and sweet with the scent of clay. Sun-baked mountains surrounded us and a few were even dusted with powdery-white snow. Each morning we would rise from our beds and walk through the crisp morning air to breakfast—there really is something about the air that gives it a light quality;  it is thinner and less polluted, but you are never want for breath. At the dining hall, we were greeted not only by half a dozen purring cats, but were silently received by the overflowing bowls of fresh produce. Never in my life had I tasted a tomato so sweet or an orange so luscious. Milk and chocolate spreads abounded, and no breakfast, of recent memory, had ever tasted so good.

Days in the Golan Heights consisted of hikes over hills and through streams. Waterfalls and breathtaking views were commonplace, and friendships were instantly formed. In the evenings there were card games, prayers and explorative walks. One such walk brought me and several of my friends atop the roof of an abandoned building, overlooking the surrounding valley. The Kineret sparkled in the distance as the trees posed in the sunlight. We sat there and watched as the sun sank behind the hills and painted the sky pink and blue. At that moment, Israel felt like home.