Doing my own small part to help Israel

I gaze at my hands, with all 10 fingers attached, and I see a miracle. You see, I went to Israel to farm and I didn’t cut off one finger. Prior to going to Israel, my relationship with agriculture was that I might have sliced a cucumber for a salad on occasion.

The visceral reaction that most of us had to Oct. 7 was life-changing. My immediate journey included calls to find a therapist. An incessant search to connect and help in any way possible. Donate. Volunteer. Go to synagogues for Shabbat services. Be proudly Jewish.

None of this satiated my need to do something.I am a secular Jew. My grandparents on my mother’s side both escaped Nazi Germany. They did not know each other in Germany. They crossed paths in Switzerland as my grandmother was heading to New York City and my grandfather to La Paz, Bolivia. My grandmother gave him her address in New York. They exchanged a few letters, and then Fred Herz asked Ruth Wolf to come to Bolivia and marry him. Ruth accepted.
When I was growing up, they didn’t talk about Germany too much, but enough for me to understand that I had the privilege of loving and being loved by real-life heroes.

Ruth and Fred were together for over 60 years. One day, while Fred was visiting my mom, he passed. My mom took care of what she needed to, and then went to see Ruth. My mom took Ruth’s hand and told her it was OK to go. Ten minutes later, Ruth passed. Officially, Ruth and Fred died three hours apart.
I share this story because my connection to Israel has always been deeply ingrained because of my grandparents’ experience.

Fred would always say that the State of Israel was of the utmost importance. My brother made aliyah at a young age, married an Israeli woman, had two daughters and lived there for over 15 years.

IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING the Oct. 7 attack by Hamas, the Israeli farming workforce was reduced to 10% as reserves were called to service. International workers fled home. Palestinian workers were no longer allowed. Summer crops were completely lost.

But it’s not just farming. There are an unlimited number of Israeli industries that have been devastated by Oct. 7. Tourism is all but gone. Tour guides, some of whom were booked two years out, are left wondering how to pay rent. Shops, restaurants, bars, clubs, cab drivers … all left to ponder what comes next.

Israel Food Rescue provides an opportunity to not only put boots on the ground to help farmers, but also to aid various other aspects of the Israeli economy.

ARRIVING AT Ben Gurion, I was flooded with emotions as I walked past images of the hostages.

Once outside, I saw lots of soldiers and police officers with rifles strapped to their backs. I found this extremely comforting. This is, and always has been, the reality for Israel. When you arrive, their presence lets you immediately know that we “are not Jews with trembling knees,” as former Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin famously said.
Oudi, my cab driver, was on “vacation” from the military. He had come back from Gaza a short time ago and started working. He was affable, funny, down-to-earth and wise. He had tagged along with his wife on a shopping excursion, and much like me, 37 seconds in, was regretting this decision. Oudi and I bonded over our mutual viewpoint that shopping is a loathsome task that should be avoided at all costs. We made each other laugh often.

Our group was staying in Jerusalem, and each morning we would head out to a farm.

Upon arriving in Jerusalem, my first impression was vibrancy. I had forgotten how cool Jerusalem is! Street musicians everywhere. Eclectic groups of residents walking, eating, laughing and singing. Kids jumping and playing. Teenagers roaming.

I met an elderly British couple who had made aliyah 15 years ago, and a couple of young guys from Belarus who had also made aliyah. Our conversations were easy and filled with laughter and stories. Politics did not enter into our chats.
That evening, I met the rest of the farming crew, from places across the U.S. Florida. Iowa. Cleveland. Colorado. Philly. Two southern boys from Chattanooga. Jews and Christians.
Deep bonds were rapidly cemented, based on laughter, stories, family and the common need to get to Israel and help.

Remember the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”? In the film, strangers from all over felt this deep, mysterious need to get to Devil’s Tower.

Israel was our Devil’s Tower. Except we knew why we were there. There was no mystery as to how we all ended up with boots on the ground in the Holy Land. We were there to do our small part to help.

THE NEXT MORNING, we loaded up a van and headed out for the 30-minute ride to a farm in Karmei Yosef.

Driving down the dirt road to the farm, the first things I noticed were the vastness and the beauty.

Alex, our leader, provided a quick orientation. We would be harvesting loquats (shesek in Hebrew). Alex had us take a bite out of a yellow one. Sour! Then an orange one – sweet deliciousness!

We were instructed to try to leave a 1-millimeter stem when we picked the orange loquats. So, armed with clippers, a basket that hung around our necks, and work gloves, we went off in search of ripe loquats.
The rows and rows of trees seemed infinite, but I enjoyed the work. The phrase “low-hanging fruit” was sometimes literal here – easy picking.

But sometimes the good loquats were up high or deep inside the tree. Would my back hold up? Would my artificial hip be OK? The answer was yes. And a shoutout to Barry from Chattanooga who brought a massage device! After dropping a couple of loads off at a table, the massager was put to good use. None in our group were young bucks, so that thing got a workout.

After we dropped off our loquats, they would immediately be packaged. One of the many gratifying moments of this experience was that one day as we were wandering through the Shuk in Jerusalem, we saw the loquats we had harvested that day being sold. Farm to table at its best!
The sun took its toll as we worked, but my semi-decrepit body held up. I have incessantly encouraged students to “expand their comfort zone,” and farming in Israel had me live those words.

The entire experience opened me to gratitude and hope. The people of Israel are an inspiration. The way they carry on while confronted with the devastating war is superhuman. Everyone in Israel knows someone who was murdered or kidnapped. I know my ability to process this has been tested, but seeing the smiles, the singing and the flourishing provided a sense of gratitude and levity.
Israel needs us. I was happy to do my small part and am counting the days until I return.

Am Yisrael chai – The people of Israel live!

If you would like to learn more about Israel Food Rescue or other volunteer opportunities in Israel, email Gary Rabinowitz at garyrabinowitz5@gmail.com.

GARY RABINOWITZ, of Cranston, is an assistant director at Camp Avoda in Massachusetts and an academic adviser at Johnson & Wales University.  He is also a contributor to the digital music magazine In Focus Visions.