Day 3: Golan Heights

This morning, we were on the bus early for our Jeep tour! We drove deep into the Golan Heights, a strategic area contested between Syria and Israel, valuable for its high ground advantage in conflict and very fertile soil. When we got down the bus, we realized immediately that it was going to be a very cold and windy day—the shorts I wore were definitely not the right decision… Nonetheless we had so much fun in the Jeep. Our driver, Ronan, was real fun and danced along as we controlled the big speakers in the car. We had a good mix of Israeli and American hits, including Don’t Stop Me Now (which Solomon and I had also karaoke’d the day before in the bus to combat jetlag). But I think that when Don’t Stop Me Now was on was potentially the highlight of the whole trip. The vibes were good, the weather looked beautiful, and the sights were stunning. We were still excited simply to be in Israel at this point, and we had a good group of friends in our car. Even Ronan was dancing with us! We stopped halfway through at an abandoned tank. It was super cool, and its location, situated in the middle of a mountainside overlooking a vast half-Israeli, half-Syrian landscape, was even cooler.

A few people in our group were nervous to go into the Golan, knowing of its danger and proximity to Syria. I had no worries going in, but I was continuously surprised at just how

normal it felt there. There was no border for us to cross, there was no military presence to be felt, nor land mines to watch out for. Maybe in some locations, but certainly not where we were. You could have told me that this part of land had been as definitively and uncontestably Israel’s from the start as Tel Aviv and I would have believed you. The only signs that something was amiss what that you could tell the names on the street signs were becoming slowly more Arabic-sounding and less Hebrew-sounding, including letters like j’s and w’s—sounds that native Hebrew words don’t have.

After finishing the tour, we went up to the top of another mountain. There, we met a Druze man who let us try his honey with apples. It was thick honey, definitely an acquired taste, but I could tell it was fresh and good quality. The Druze are native to this region, and have their own language with their own script, and their own religion too. They are fiercely loyal people, loyal to their own country. For that reason, there is a split between generations, where older Druze are loyal to Syria, and younger, loyal to Israel, as the Golan region changed hands in the late 60s. And I personally say changed hands, and many familiar with the region would agree, with confidence. When driving into the Golan, we never had to cross a border. There was never a security checkpoint, border control, or anything official of the sort. There was no wall, and when we entered the Golan, there was no indication of it. Signs were in Hebrew and Arabic, and when we went to the restaurant on the top of this mountain, everything was pretty much exclusively in Hebrew. In contrast, there is a distinct “Syrian border.” There’s a fence, and you can tell in the color of the grass and soil which side of the fence is which. The Israeli side is developed with wind farms and agricultural farms alike, and the Syrian side’s closest attraction is a ghost town. The difference was poetic, stark, and representative of the region. For the first time, I began to understand the true power of the difference between Israel and its neighbors. For the first time, being on Birthright wasn’t just a time to play and have fun abroad, but really a time to see the things that have shaped conversations about our people and our holy land. Seeing the Syrian border, making those observations, sitting in the tank all educated me on the topic so much more than sitting in a lecture ever could. We had a small discussion about the kibbutz economy of Israel—the history of social living and communal industries—before heading to our next stop, an abandoned Syrian military base.

If the experience of seeing the Syrian border from far away was inspiring, then I wouldn’t even know how to describe the abandoned base. Poignant, shocking, pensive. Not sure if those are right, but it’s the closest I can get. The experience was only paralleled by my visit to Buzludja in Bulgaria (see my journal from there for all the information about that…). It was a monument, a testament to something. In this case, Arab Military Might, and in Bulgaria, Communism. Both of these things needed their respective buildings to survive. The Syrian base needed to exist to help command the army on the Israeli border, Buzludja needed to exist to fuel the Communist spirit and fervor in Bulgaria. And now, both buildings are in total ruins, bested by their adversaries, covered in graffiti, and devoid of tourists. Forgotten. Both make a powerful message, certainly a more powerful one than the monuments and skyscrapers that are well-kept and shown off by their countries. When we had our night out in Tel Aviv, a friend of Meghan’s, Dana, was disappointed that Birthright brought us there. And in fairness, Birthright did not. It was entirely Eyal’s idea, and Omer decided that it’d be cool for us. Dana was frustrated. Why would they bring us to such an ugly, worn-down place? That’s not Israel! This is Israel (referring to Tel Aviv). In my opinion, the reason is so that we can understand. We have not had a lifetime of on and off conflict. We have not seen destruction in our backyards, nor suffered the deaths of friends or family in the IDF. We’ve never needed the Iron Dome to defend us. For us to understand the pain that Israel is put through constantly, it was necessary for us to visit this place. To see the border, to see the carnage that, yes, was done by the Israelis, and to see the opinions that were broadcasted to any rare visitor through the graffiti. That was why we came.

Standing in the abandoned military headquarters, Eyal told us about his proudest accomplishment: being the visionary and commander of the Operation Good Neighbor project. Operation Good Neighbor aimed to give the Syrian civilians in border regions hope and care. He said that one moment that really validated the existence of his operation was when he was playing soccer with a boy, and the boy tripped and hurt himself. He was scraped and bleeding, but didn’t make a noise. Eyal asked him why he was so quiet, if he was hurting, and if he needed help. The boy responded that he didn’t cry because he knew nobody would care or come to his attention. Eyal promised him that he would care, and they’ll make his scrape all better. He said there are countless stories from him and his unit of the kids’ gratitude for their work. Pictures drawn, signed by kids who misspelled their own names, and yet have the word شكراً (thank you) written. Kids who can’t even spell their own names, but are intelligent and old enough to understand the good that is being done unto them, and the good that they had been deprived of their whole lives. He told stories of kids having fears of people dressed in military uniforms, only to discover the kindness and care of the IDF. Again, there’s an unspoken “we’re better than them” attitude that runs through the whole thing. And I’m not sure what to think about that. I suppose if it helps kids that have nobody else to care for them then you can’t be opposed to it, but I’m curious where the line is in my mind. Where the “we’re better” attitude is too much. Either way, I appreciate the work that Eyal did, and we were all inspired hearing about it. The pictures he brought along to accompany it, along with the setting, certainly added to the mood.

We then stopped in this small road-side town for lunch called Katsrin. The food was, well, side-of-the-road town quality. The only reason I bring this place up at all is that Solomon and I went out exploring a little bit during our lunch break. We ended up in this mall that felt like “the Israel we weren’t supposed to see.” It was normal person Israel. Much like when I was living in France. Just Israelis going about their business in Hebrew, buying their groceries, depositing money into the bank, or buying flowers for their friend’s wedding. Very little was in English; in fact, more was in Russian than English in this mall. It was very cool to get, just for a second, this special look into Israel, away from the stigma of the tour group and the pink name tags we were supposed to be wearing all over. Away from the big historic and religious sites, or the exciting streets of a shuk. I never got another experience quite like this on the trip, and I appreciate having done it.

That night, back at the kibbutz, the Israelis planned some games for us to play. The first was the Israeli version of sharks and minnows, called Hakadarim Baim (הקדרים באים). That’s what you call when it’s time for people to start running. The one catch, though, is that once you move forwards, you can’t move behind you. So as soon as you’ve passed all the sharks, you are safe, whereas in the American version I am familiar with, you’re only safe once you make it to the end. I actually was the first shark, and from there, caught a decent number on the first round. The next game we played was called “pim pam pom.” We had three volunteers who faced their backs to the crowd and were each given a piece of paper that said “pim,” “pam,” or “pom” on it. We were then asked questions—not dirty questions, rather silly questions like who’d choke on an apple, or who’s the most likely to move to Israel—and we’d respond with either pim, pam, or pom. They had to then guess which of the three they were based on the crowd’s response to many questions. We played a few rounds of this, but the it ended after the Israelis got mad because we weren’t saying our vowels correctly… The final game was my favorite. It involved setting three sticks evenly spaced. We all went around in a line, running through the sticks so that your foot touches only once in each zone. The last person in the line should jump as far as they can, and the last stick moves out to where they landed, with the middle stick adjusting to even the zones out. You go around again and again until there is just one winner. I came in third place out of the whole group, and the two people above me were both well over 6 feet, so I’d say I’m pretty proud of myself! We spent the night on the pier again talking, and also went to the bar below the dining room.