As we wend our way through cities, as we visit distant countries, as we travel and explore, we make unexpected discoveries. Eight stories

Family Farm

Shevy Levine

We’re somewhere between one Covid lockdown and the next when we decide to take a family trip to Netanya for some much-needed air. Our itinerary is packed, our days full. We spend mornings at the beach, afternoons at various attractions in the area.

We’re not the only ones bitten by the travel bug; most places we go are packed with families just like us — young and chareidi and oh-so-familiar. There’s a beauty in the sameness, a comfort in spending our vacation surrounded by those on our wavelength.

On the second day of our trip, we set out to a vegetable farm. It’s out of the way, and no one I know has ever visited the place, but the thought of introducing our little ones to food growing from the ground (!) is too exciting to pass up. We follow one dirt road, then another, bumping along narrow roads, until finally, we arrive.

The kids bound out of the car, eager to stretch and move. My husband and I unbuckle… and immediately do a double take.

The farm is empty, but the market behind the farm is full. It’s well into the 90s outside, and everyone is masked. Sandals and flip-flops abound, sleeves and head coverings do not. I gulp. Chareidi-chiloni tensions, always simmering in this tiny country we call home, had reached an all-time high in recent months. First it was elections and Covid, then Covid and elections, and now elections and Covid again.

The issues rotated and returned at a dizzying pace, all enmeshed and entangled, blared across the headlines on both sides of the divide. Sadly, no matter how obscure or inane the details, the tension that resulted couldn’t be ignored. Or so they said.

My husband went inside to pay, while I prepped the kids, snapping on masks and tucking in shirts, praying that they please, please behave, and not do anything to make this awkward situation any worse. Let’s just get out to the fields, I thought. Out in the open, away from judgmental eyes, we would be free to do our thing.

Surprisingly, our guide, Oriya, didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Wearing long slacks, hair tied into a bun, she helped us navigate the crops, peppering us with comments and questions that seemed more curious than annoyed. We chit-chatted about the kids and our origins; we spoke about what it’s like to live abroad and what it’s like to live on a farm. Oriya spoke only Hebrew, I speak English, but somehow, it worked. The discomfort I felt earlier began to thaw. Oriya was sweet, and helpful, too. Why had I been so worried?

We moved from potatoes to kale, then radishes, the sun beating down on our backs. The kids were in their element, thwacking weeds and digging dirt with the shovels and tools Oriya provided. They clutched their precious findings in large brown sacks, proud of their yield. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder — the quantity of vegetables we’d picked seemed so sparse compared to the amount of land we covered. Were we just poor farmers, or was there something up with the farm?

“Shemittah,” Oriya explained. “We’re getting ready, preparing. It’s less than a year away.” Noticing my expression, Oriya laughed. “Yes, yes. They all come here, the chareidi schools, the chareidim, they come to see.”

We walked back from the fields together, this time with Oriya pointing out all the details I’d missed: the sectioned-off corner for peah, the cordoned-off trees for orlah, the posted signage regarding terumos and maasros. How had I not seen this? I wondered. How had I not seen her?

We meet Oriya’s husband. He stands together with a few other men, all of them sporting large canvas hats and rugged shorts. “Mi habaal habayit po?” my husband asks, taking out his wallet. One of the men points upward, and then we know that these fields belong to him. They’re his — and His. We press bills into the man’s hand and ask him to bentsh our children.

My children climb back into the car, clutching their vegetables close. It’s sticky and hot, and we’re eager to get on the road, but a part of me wants to hold the moment forever.

The headlines, the news, the great brotherly divide — it may all be true. We as individuals, as groups, as a nation, have a long way to go. But in a moment of piercing clarity, I know. There’s so much to see, so much to learn. I think of what could have been a missed chance — an afternoon spent elsewhere, in the comfort of same. And I think of a day spent out in the fields, surrounded by growth and growing, stretching and becoming, eyes open, ready to learn and gain.