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ing my inspiration), and to
water the beloved fields of Is-
rael with my sweat, just as
my ancestors had years be-
fore (this time my inspiration
'being those sappy movies
about kibbutz life we used to
watch in Sunday school).
Needless to say, I acquired a
decent basis to speak He-
brew, but I discovered kib-
butz life, specifically at Beit
Hashita, to be somewhat dif-
ferent than I had expected.
Located in the lush, north-
ern Jezreel Valley, Kibbutz
Beit Hashita physically re-
sembles a plush tropical re-
sort. The shacks and muddy
roads I had envisioned were
conspicuously absent, and in
their place were tennis
courts, a zoo, a pool, a land-
scaped amphitheater, vari-
ous playgrounds . . . all
beautified by palm trees and
Crayola sunsets. Many of the
families lived in condo-style
homes, and numerous mem-
bers zoomed around on mo-
tor scooters or in golf carts.
Did I take a wrong turn
somewhere and end up in
Boca Raton? My romantic
hopes of "roughing it" were
shaken by the unmistakable
beauty of the kibbutz. As we
nicknamed the kibbutz "Club
Med Beit Hashita" early on,
I saw my chance to live the
stereotypical kibbutz experi-
ence fizzle.
Then we started work.
Most of us worked in the
zeitiah (olive, pickle and
onion factory). If I couldn't
work in the fields, and if I
was not going to have to per-
severe in some dumpy kib-
butz, I figured that working
in a factory would give me a
taste of the "hard life." Well,
with that taste came a smell
... the permeating, ever-pre-
sent odor of olive juice and
vinegar that tainted our
three months at Beit
Hashita.
The first time I entered the
factory I thought of those
scratch-n-sniff stickers, par-
ticularly the pickle variety.
Each day I sat at a convey-
er belt for four hours sorting
out the "bad" olives, pimen-
tos, pickles or cocktail onions
(the agreed-upon nightmare),
and awaited the moment
that I could walk through the
doors of the zeitiah and say
goodbye to that smell forev-
er. Spending four hours a
day on a factory line is no
great joy, especially when the
smell makes you nauseous,

your Israeli coworkers think
you (a college graduate) can't
tell a bad olive from a good
one, and you begin to wonder
why you (a college graduate)
are doing such a menial job.
We spent many hours com-
plaining about the zeitiah,
wondering how the kib-
butzniks could do this for
their livelihood. We desper-
ately tried to get assigned to
other jobs (such as kitchen
duty or working in the store),
and in the meantime, count-
ed the days until we sorted
our final olive.
Not only did we have to
deal with the olives, but we
also were at the mercy of the
kibbutzniks . . . and their
rules. There were jobs for
"men" (like spraying brine
into huge vats of olives or

"The permeating,
ever-present odor
of olive juice and
vinegar tainted
our stay."

feeding the synthetic orange
substance into the pimento
machine); and there were
jobs for "women" (like work-
ing on the line or scraping la-
bels off of jars). Micha, the
factory work boss, would
never consider putting a
woman in a so-called "man's
job." Of course, our political-
ly correct group resented this
treatment, and opposition
grew in response to this sex-
ist mindset. After all, back in
North America we're used to
equal opportunities, or at
least an attempt at them.
Trade, however, believes
that her kibbutz has not de-
terred her from staying on.
She, too, began in the zeiti-
ah, then moved to the dining
room where she serves food
and cleans. It is not her ide-
al job, but she works an
eight-hour day filled with
many breaks and casual
chatter. She doesn't have to
commute to work, and her
job ends when she leaves the
dining room each day. And
best of all, Tracie receives the
benefits of kibbutz life, in-
cluding room, board, food .. .
and the same spending al-
lowance as the work boss of
the zeitiah.
Despite the problems, my
kibbutz experience seems to
provide many people with a
rich (figuratively speaking),