69 Alone with a Bicycle

For a long time I have wanted to write about my bicycle experiences. And lo and behold – turning the pages of a newspaper I came across an article by Haruki Murakami about long distance running. The experience about which he writes is very similar to my experience. His article is only a part of an entire book on running; Murakami says that in order to understand something he has to write about it. Therefore he writes about running in order to understand its significance for him – he runs at least an hour every day. I won't write a book but will content myself with a short article.

Like Murakami I also like physical activity that is not done in a group. That is very private, almost meditative. My own time, spent by myself and in an essentially non-competitive context. That explains why I also like to swim. But unlike Murakami I do not set myself difficult goals – such as various kinds of marathons. I make do with moderate activity combined with a nature trip – a trip I would not take if I did not have the excuse of the bicycle – and rest periods spent in reading which is a special treat that I have become addicted to.

What I try to avoid is all the commotion that accompanies bicycles and riding. I don't have a 'brand' bicycle, and the one I have I spent time and effort on to change to my special kind of riding, which is quite unusual. For example, the handle bar is especially high because my back doesn't like the forward tilted position (all the field-riders stare at my bicycle in disbelieve). I also don't ride in fashionable riding gear. Although riding pants are absolutely essential, over them I wear ordinary pants and so in the field I look just like anyone else and not a coat hanger decorated with labels in brilliant colors.

From riders that are accustomed to ride in groups I always hear of the rules of this religion: the fashionable uniforms, the interest in individual achievement (the number of kilometers, the length of time), the hidden and apparent competition within the group and between the different groups, the participation in mass riding events and, of course, the incentive to excel which is sometimes even dangerous, and is the result of group competitive and social pressure. All that I leave far behind me when I go by myself to the open fields – always to the fields: the road is dangerous and also boring. When I ride alone I stop immediately when I become tired, there is no one I have to impress. While riding I look around and stop from time to time to take pictures. I look for a nice, shady place to sit down and read.

There is no need to look for opportunities to make a special effort; in any case, even very moderate riding is sufficient activity, especially in the summer heat. Never the less I do come to difficult paths as well as to places where I have to carry the bicycle on my shoulders and walk between rocks. This moderate sport program doesn't mean that I choose easy routes. But in all the routes, even in the difficult ones, I peddle as leisurely as possible.

68 The Builders of the Boat in Kfar Uriah

Avraham Ofek's mural surrounded me suddenly on three sides. I reached the old People's House of Kfar Uriah by chance, as a result of an orientation game played with riddles, and I had no idea that this modest place hides a delightful treasure. I felt as if I had come upon an Italian church and suddenly saw there works of art peering down at me from the walls – paintings that until now were known to me only from reproductions and books.

It was my good fortune that the writers of the riddle knew well the painting in the People's House. And thus their riddle led me by means of portions of the Book of Samuel and the Story of Uriah the Hittite to Kfar Uriah and there I discovered the wonderful sight of Ofek's painting. He worked eight months on this monumental mural which covers three complete walls. The painting, which dates from 1970, consists of picture after picture telling the story of a creative life as well as a journey that resembles the path of immigrants to the Land of Israel. The painting portrays moments in the lives of the builders of the new country, including a wedding, city houses and people around a table.

There isn't much happiness in this mural. It is serious and stark. The people in it are taking part in a great cause, but they have no identity as individuals and there is no joy in their expressions and actions. It seems that their lives as individuals are by no means the main concern of the artist here. They participate, like industrious ants, in a great historic moment that was not of their conception, and perhaps that is the reason for their lack of enthusiasm and joy.

The deed is greater than the individual who did it (and here, than the individuals) – is the feeling created strongly by Avraham Ofek's mural in Kfar Uriah. Twenty two years after the establishment of the State of Israel this ethos was still dominant in the country's society and this mural expresses this well.

67 Our Baskets on our shoulders

Our baskets on our shoulders/ wreaths on our heads / from every corner of the country we came/ to bring our first fruits/ from Yehuda, from Yehuda and the Shomron/ from the Emek, from the Emek and the Galilee/ make way for us/ for we bear first fruits/ boom boom boom on the drum, play the flute/ boom boom boom on the drum, play the flute.

I remember the words of this simple naive Bikurim (First Fruits) song of Levin Kipnis which has been part of me ever since those early days. And already I wonder if the proper words are 'play the flute' or 'blow the flute', 'from Yehuda and the Shomron' or 'from Yehuda and from Shomron'. I do a Google search and discover various versions. All of them quoted from memory, incorrect and misleading. I think 'blow the flute' sounds better, but most of the versions that I find say 'play the flute' and I do likewise.

The Bikurim songs have been going through my mind all this past week. When I finish my daily swimming (40 lengths), the evening practice for the holiday ceremonies of Gan Shmuel are already in progress. They are held on the large lawn next to the dinning hall which is close to the swimming pool. Bales of straw are piled there and one glance at the dancing children and one note of the holiday songs send me back years to the time when all of us marched in the Bikurim procession – not in the heart of the kibbutz as a sort of ceremony created for urban tourists as is done today, but actually in the fields with all the agricultural equipment and all the kibbutz members and children participating in a grand procession of the various agricultural branches. Giant cotton picking machines rode by, lots of tractors, some of them dragging long aluminum irrigation pipes which were later assembled and taken apart to demonstrate developing agricultural technology. Turkeys, goats and calves were hauled there, even horses. And the babies born that year were also brought to be shown off as 'First Fruits'.

Here I am in the center of the picture, next to me – Ami. We have wreaths on our heads and are leading a dog that is drawing a little wagon. I don't remember what was in the wagon, perhaps pigeons from the children's farm. We tried to be creative in presenting our first fruits. Every year there was a competition between the various agricultural branches and the happy winners whose presentation was considered the most beautiful, original and colorful, won the right to keep the 'Bikurim Flag' until the following year.

66 After all, what does a man need?

After all, what does a man need? A room for the night in the upper end of Rosh Pinna with a porch overlooking the Jordan River and the Golan mountains, a good book, a cup of coffee, some peanuts and almonds, a breeze blowing after a hot day that slightly moves the boughs of the Mulberry tree, an old tile roof covered with a partition placed on thick stone walls, a green creeping plant that covers half of the stone wall and an ironwork railing painted blue.

And here I am, absorbed in a book that deals with events that happened right here. I ate lunch next to the Jordan River and thought about the beginning of the wild journey of Ora and Avram, Grossman's heroes, and how they crossed the river this way and that, bare footed, almost lost, with their huge back-packs. And when I ordered wonderful Turkish kebab I thought about the revolt of their son, Offer, refusing to eat meat, and he only four years old and very opinionated.

And tomorrow I shall take the steep road to the Nebi Yusha fortress and remember how Ora hated this cruel place where twenty eight Palmach fighters died in 1948 and among them Dudu ('bring the finjan and tell me, is there another Palmachnick like Dudu'). And from there I shall leisurely travel through the paths of the Gallilee and imagine that I am walking the "Israel Path" south. Thus I'll wind my way to the outskirts of Safed and around Mount Meron and rest in Peki'in to eat there the best labneh in the world. After that I'll take a brief look at the synagogue, take a few snapshots of Peki'in's alleys and buy myself some of 'grandmother Jamilah's' perfumed soap.

When I'll go up the road that surrounds the village, I'll drive until the observation point above Rame, and from there I'll see all of the lower Gallilee from the Kinneret to the Carmel and I already know that the trip of Ora and Avram reached that point.

But now the evening breeze sends me into my room to find something warm to wear, and I place the open book face down on the chair and stretch, smiling in anticipation of tomorrow's adventure. A little journey of pilgrimage it is turning out to be. After all, what does a man need? A good book, a porch with a view and the willingness to follow ones imagination and the book.

65 An Old Page

On my bicycle trip on Saturday I sat down to rest on a bench under a beautiful tree in the Ramat Hanadiv National Park. I drank some water, took a bite of my energy snack, reached into my little back-pack to take out a small book "The Judgment and Other Stories" and read the story entitled "An Old Page". In three pages Kafka creates an ominous feeling of the collapse of civilization because of wild nomads that had invaded and reached the square in front of the Emperor's palace and no one dared to confront them.

While reading I was reminded of Coetzee's book "Waiting for the Barbarians" wherein the feeling of disintegration and fear of the barbarians is spread over many depressing pages. And suddenly it occurred to me that Coetzee's book is in some way an extension of Kafka's brief story.

I also thought that today we are celebrating the state's sixtieth anniversary and a dark cloud hovers over the head of our leader. He himself sits withdrawn in his official residence and does not come out and speak to us about the holiday. It seems that the fear of the nomads in Kafka's story and of the barbarians in Coetzee's novel has been turned by us into fear of ourselves. For we, or our elected leaders, or our new financial idols – and not nomads or barbarians – gallop in the city square and trample over the masses.

But on the holiday I shall wave the flag and sweep away the evil spirit. I shall call the good winds that moved the branches of the tree under which I read the old page and I shall think of the good there is and still will be in the future.

64 The Cheese of Safed

On Friday I payed a visit to Ha'Meiri dairy in Safed and saw the 'boutique' family dairy. I heard stories about Safed and about how cheese is made, was taken to the cellar and saw the Safed cheeses rest in straw baskets encased in salt, and bought wonderful cheeses to take home.

After everyone had finished buying cheeses only we remained, and we found it interesting to walk through the rooms of the house and look at the pictures on the walls. And then Meir Hameiri arrived. We told him that during the tour that his son Yaniv had given us, he mentioned many of his father's stories and Meir decided to take us to his archives in which he chronicles the history of the people of Safed of 1948.

The building in which the dairy is located, which formerly was also the family home, is situated on the western edge of the city, above the cemetery slope and opposite the Miron mountain. The house served as a front outpost in the War of Independence and also as a hiding place for 'Etzel' arms. During the shelling by the 'Arab Salvation Army' the house was destroyed and after the war was again restored.

When we were just about to leave after having heard countless stories, we asked Meir about the cemetery of Safed. He said that he is the synagogue's treasurer and since today was Friday of the first of the month, he was about to bring to the holy man of the synagogue, Rabbi Maveritch, the slips of paper with the wishes that the worshippers had trusted him with. 'Follow me' he said and got into his car. We followed him to the cemetery. When we arrived Meir told us how he had discovered the cave in which Avraham Dov Maveritch is buried and how with his bare hands he dug and disclosed the grave.

On the way to the cave we passed the grave of Rabbi Yosef Karo, the author of 'Shulchan Aruch'. After visiting the cave and going a short distance further up the mountain we came to the grave of Rabbi Yitzchak Lurie (the Ari). I realized that unintentionally I had come to Safed to visit the graves of holy men.

But now, seated before a plate of cheese, I neither think about the stories of the elder of Safed nor about the graves of holy men. I am satisfied with myself for having taken the trouble of going to Safed for the taste of home-made cheese – cheese that was made by hand and was waiting for me in a straw basket.

63 Pesach in the Kibbutz 1966

Pesach of the 1960s was a gigantic pageant. More than half of the kibbutz members and most of the children participated to some extend in the preparations and the performances. It was the biggest kibbutz holiday. The choir in which people between the ages of 16 and 66 sang, held daily rehearsals for more than a month on holiday songs; the children rehearsed the ceremony of bringing the sheaves of grain for the 'Omer'; those who were going to read parts of the Kibbutz Haggadah rehearsed the correct pronunciation of the text with one of the experienced kibbutz members; and those children who's turn it was to dance the Had Gadyah were in seventh heaven (and so were their proud parents).

An atmosphere of collective excitement characterized the kibbutz in the days before the holidays and for all those 'performers', the singers, dancers, actors and readers, it was a month of intensive cultural activity. While writing these words I am reminded of the beautiful sentences that Igael Burshtein wrote about John Huston's film "The Dead" which was based on James Joyce's story: 'The story takes us back to Ireland in the early 20^th century and to the people who lived an active cultural life to the utmost: they sang, danced, embroidered, played musical instruments, gave speeches, etc'. In some way the sixties in the kibbutz resembled this description. Active participation in cultural activities was considered of great value and almost everyone either played an instrument, acted or sang in the choir – and all this activity peaked on holidays, especially in the big Pesach production.

Almost a month before the evening of the holiday a large stage was built in the dinning hall. Daily routine was disrupted and everything concentrated around the big event that was in the offing. The final rehearsals on the stage were a leap from one emotional high to another, and the evening of the holiday was so exciting as to be almost unbearable.

After the Seder was over, we would remove the long tables and benches from the dinning room and dance in circles until exhaustion. After that we would sit on the edges of the stage around Uzi's accordion and sing without end, until dawn.

In the picture we dance the story of the suffering of the Israelites in Egypt (though according to the costumes and the movements we look more like the Egyptians). I am on the right, in the middle is Menachem, behind us, if I am not mistaken is Ehud and on the left is Oren. I don't know who the dancer in the back is.