 © Tavis Cockburn
|
Visiting Kibbutz Hanita Click to read Click to |
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© Tavis Cockburn
|
Visiting Kibbutz Hanita Click to read Click to |
Visiting
Kibbutz Hanita
Many years ago, when I was still
opening my eyes to the world, something happened, a small incident that I remember very
clearly. It taught me that humans beings, whatever you hear, are essentially kind and
good.
After finishing high school, every child strongly believes that he or she owns the planet. In this belief I was not different from others my age who grew up in a wonderful country named Venezuela.
Venezuela in the 1960s was one of the best places in the world. Oil was given to us in a full hand, the entire country was like a big party continuously celebrating prosperity. My parents knew that the boom would not last. To prepare me for life after the party was over, they proposed that I spend a year before college far from home, on a continent of my choosing.
So it was that I flew to Israel and began studies at Haifa University. One day I received a postcard from a Venezuelan friend named Ruben. He was living in Kibbutz Hanita, learning Hebrew and Judaism, following through on his decision to become a Jew. Ruben wanted me to visit him. Ronit, a fellow student, advised me about the danger of traveling to his kibbutz. "It is very insecure," she said. "He is living on the line that divides Israel from Lebanon."
I grew up playing with the children of a Lebanese family who lived in my building. They were fine people, very friendly. "I’m going to visit my friend for the weekend," I said.
Ronit was upset. "You’re out of your mind," she said. Ronit was from Colombia and felt responsible for me, a fellow South American. In clear Spanish she explained: "The area where you are planning to go is full of terrorists who infiltrate through Lebanon. And most of the attacks are aimed at the Kibbutz Hanita where your friend is living. Don’t put your life in danger."
"I’ve got to go," I said. "My friend Ruben is lonely and homesick."
"In that case," Ronit, said. "I’m coming with you. You’re not going to get killed alone."
A couple of days later, Ronit and I were traveling north on a bus. At some point near Lebanon, we were supposed to change to a local. I was happy and excited. Ronit was shaking.
We got to Quiriat Shemona late at night, and all passengers left the bus. When the bus was empty, the driver turned to us. "OK girls, this is my last stop," he said. He was young and strong, handsome and polite. Black hair, blue eyes, white skin, smiling lips.
"What’s the best way to the kibbutz?" we asked.
"There’s no way before tomorrow morning," he said. "The last bus left fifteen minutes ago."
"What?" we answered together. "There must be a way."
"Do you understand Hebrew?" the driver continued, "or should I explain myself in plain English? There is no way you can get there now. The first bus leaves at six o’clock in the morning, and I’m the driver."
"Could we wait inside this bus?"
"No, ladies. For security reasons, I have to close the bus and park it in a special area."
"Could you then show us a park or another place where we could spend the night? We have no money to pay for a hotel."
"Girls, if I leave you sleeping in the park, tomorrow morning I will find two bodies. Terrorists are all over this area. If you want, however, I will take you to my house, and tomorrow morning I will drive you on my first route to the kibbutz."
My friend and I looked at each other and then discussed the offer, speaking in Spanish so he wouldn’t understand. We were both innocent virgins who had the privilege, until then, of a very happy and easy life in our countries. We were between two very simple realities. Would we be murdered by a terrorist, or raped by a Jew?
A little later we entered the house of that young driver. His wife opened the door, and did not seem surprised to see her husband with two strangers. This was not the first time he had taken lost tourists to spend the night in their home. We were starving. The driver’s wife gave us dinner, opened the living room sofa bed, and put on new sheets. Soon we were both asleep.
Ronit and I arose at five o’clock in the morning, and breakfast was waiting for us. We took showers, walked to the bus, and left heading north. On the way the driver told us about his experiences as a soldier. "I took many pregnant Lebanese women to Israeli hospitals to give birth to their children," he said. "These woman sit at the frontier and cry in pain until Israeli soldiers take them. And they are grateful—they love Israelis. Today they repay us by telling us about impending rocket attacks, so that we can run to the shelters until the danger is gone."
When we reached Kibbutz Hanita, the driver did not leave us until we found Ruben, my Venezuelan friend.
I remember my visit to Ruben and Kibbutz Hanita as though it were yesterday. The couple who adopted us for the night—I never saw them again. I was young, and they taught me something important. They taught me to trust humanity. I wish them well.
Profile
It is no surprise that Sylvia graduated as a journalist and made journalism her life’s work. A romantic and a dreamer, she instinctively speaks in metaphor, as if she is writing an essay or a poem against the backdrop of a tropical paradise. Sylvia grew up in Argentina and Venezuela. Fresh out of college, she worked in television for three years: production, copy writing. At the end, for a couple of months, she did her own talk show featuring live interviews with local authors. In 1980 she left the country to travel, then came back to work as a journalist, and finally took a job as an editor with El Universal, the largest newspaper in South America, where she served as editor of Estampas, the Sunday magazine.
In 1983 Sylvia worked as a correspondent for Revista Variedades, a Caracas-based weekly magazine. In 1985, Sylvia decided to make New York her home. She continues to stay in touch with her hometown by writing a weekly column for a local Caracas newspaper where she notes her thoughts, feelings, and impressions of the moment. Her warmth and devotion make her home a natural stopping place for friends and family the world over.
—Joy Benzaquen
Bio
Sylvia Benzaquen
Place of residence: New York.
Birthplace: Tangier, Morocco.
Grew up in: Argentina and Venezuela.
Day job: Freelance journalist.
Serial publications: New York City correspondent for Nuevo Mundo Israelita
(Caracas). Revista Estampas, El Universal (Caracas).
Book: Biography of Venezuelan painter Amparo Rojas.
Current projects: A movie script and a novel.
Favorite book: The Exemplary Novels of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra by
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.
Belief: Jewish.
Craving: I pray for world peace.
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