Shabbat on the Farm (part 2)
The sun was preparing to set on Eitam Farm. We all needed to prepare for the coming of Shabbat.
After cleaning up the living room where my friend Yoshi and I would be sleeping (other guests would be in a caravan or something,) it was time to light the candles. Women are obligated to light Shabbat candles, but men are not unless they live alone. So Mark/Mordechai, the farmer whose home this was, would light, and I wanted to light, but the other guys didn’t.
He had a few oil lamps (and a lantern that didn’t work,) and he lit them and hung them on the walls. I could picture before light bulbs were invented, how this would light people’s homes. (Spoiler: the night was exceptionally windy and a window was opened, so most of the lamps and candles blew out pretty soon, but one lamp on the opposite wall stayed lit even until after Shabbat. But this is modern times, so we used light bulbs.) The guys had chopped up wood and one of them filled the fireplace with it, so the heat would last as long as possible. (Even though they ignore prohibitions against electricity on Shabbat on this farm, it is forbidden to light or tend to or extinguish a fire.) An ancient group of Jews called Kara’ites (who still exist, by the way) believed that it was forbidden to have a fire on Shabbat, unlike mainstream Jews who followed the Oral Torah and were okay with a fire as long as it was set up before Shabbat entered. I had heard that these people would observe Shabbat in the cold and dark. That sounded like a punchline to me, until being here on this farm, when I could imagine what it would actually feel like to spend Shabbat without heating and without a fire in the hearth. No, thank you.
Mark identifies with his Syrian roots, and in Sephardic/Mizrachi tradition, you say the bracha (blessing) over lighting the candles before lighting. He did so over the last lamp. In my Ashkenazi custom, we say the bracha after lighting, because we believe that lighting the candles brings in Shabbat, and once the bracha is said you can’t make a fire. Mark and the guys believe that lighting the candles doesn’t have to bring in Shabbat if that’s not your intention, so you could do it and then go back to preparing or doing non-Shabbat things until the sun sets. It’s an interesting idea, but I’m not adopting it this night. So I said the bracha and lit two tea-lights he set up for me, and blessed everyone with a good Shabbes!
The sun was still high in the sky. Even though we were ready to walk to the Beit Knesset (synagogue/shul,) I looked in my agenda and discovered that Shabbat starts in one hour — Yoshi had told us a time based on two weeks ago, before daylight savings time. So we had an extra hour to enjoy, because services start when the sun is near setting.
It then dawned on me that since Mark’s daughter left the previous night to spend Shabbat with her boyfriend, I hadn’t seen another woman on the farm. “Am I the only woman here?” I asked.
“Yep,” was the reply.
So this means that when we get to Shul, and I assumed this crowd separates men from women, there wouldn’t be a mechitza (divider) in the room, because what’s the point in having one in an all-men community? I was really curious to see what would happen.
“Don’t worry, they’ll set up something for you,” was a response to my inquiry.
When I got there, there was a Torah ark facing Jerusalem (which you could see the skyline of when you step outside.) These young men were spread out all over the room. I wanted a place to myself. There was a corner in the back right with two tables in rows and some Hebrew books along the wall. When the guys back there got up and moved, I took over. I situated myself behind one of the tables. As they were praying, guys swiftly cleared both of the tables, and then put one on top of the other. They took a tallit (prayer shawl) outside to shake it clean, and then spread it over the top table so it hung until almost touching the lower table. I now had a bit of privacy in front of me, though I could still see the guys beside me, and any time I wanted I could peek out and look at the front.
At first I felt guilty that they made all this effort to create a little spot for me. But then I thought, I’m just going to own it. I have a different status from everyone else in this room, and they all know it. I get special attention. And I love attention. So this is cool.
They were davening the weekday Ma’ariv until the sun sets. When they got to the Amidah, they were silent, and some guys made big bowing and upright movements (dramatic shuckling) as they prayed. I now have a special relationship with the Amidah. So I decided, even though they would be almost done by the time I start, that I would read it. I opened to the water-damaged pages in my Siddur, stepped backwards and forwards, and read every word in Hebrew.
Soon after I began, they were finished. They sang the next prayers, the Psalms of the Kabbalat Shabbat service. Some were really good tunes and I wanted to sing with them. But I had 16 more brachot to go. By the time I finished reading the Amidah at my pace, they were almost finished the next service.
They had a cast-iron fireplace in the room like at Mark’s place, and they also put foil platters of food atop it for warming.
After services, we went to Mark’s for Shabbat dinner. He thanked us for coming, so he would have people to share this Shabbat with. I thanked him for letting me come, so I could experience farming in Israel.
I had been looking forward to a nice, restful Shabbat, where we wouldn’t have to do any work. But I was wrong. Shabbat is a day of rest, which according to Jewish law means not doing certain types of labour, such as tying knots or riding a vehicle with an internal combustion engine. However, if you have animals that need to be taken out to graze every day, you can’t not do that for a day. Even though we can’t plant or take fruit off a tree, animals can eat grass out of the ground and water the soil.
“The only difference on Shabbat is that there’s no carrying,” Mark said. So the staff that shepherds use cannot be brought from a private space (in the house) to a public space (out on the mountains.)
“No hecking way am I going to risk my life on those rocks without a staff,” said Yoshi.
But we are free to do as we choose, Mark emphasised. If we don’t want to graze, he will, or he’ll get one of the yeshiva boys to do it. Nobody is under any requirement.
So in the morning when Mark and one of the Shabbat guests got up to go grazing, I stayed on my couch. Until enough time passed that they had gone to the barn, opened the door, and led the herd probably towards the house. At which point I realised that I would rather be part of their interesting conversations about Torah than do nothing. So I joined them, again hoping that they would do all the work, and maybe nobody would notice that I’m not paying attention to where the sheep and goats are.
They talked about the farm and some changes Mark was hoping to implement soon. And Torah. And other interesting stuff. Mark articulated what I had been thinking: It would be so great if the herd just stayed in one place, and I could sit and read for a few hours. But they don’t. They want to go all over, including off our land, and it’s constant work to watch them and protect them. But by the third hour, he noticed, they usually calm down and stay in one place.
By the time it was getting into that third hour, the guest needed to go in and take out his contact lenses. And then Mark needed to put food on the heater to get it ready for lunch. “Could you watch them on your own?”
This was exactly what I had been hoping to avoid. But also, probably the easiest thing ever.
“I’ll get them to this square,” he offered. “Just make sure they don’t go way over there.”
“Okay.”
And off he went, and there I was, alone with the sheep and goats. I positioned myself in the direction he didn’t want them to go. When one went even a few metres (out of hundreds) in that direction, I stood directly in front of it and peer-pressured it to move back. But two of its peers joined it in that direction. So I tried to get all of them to stay on the other side of me. Without my vigilance, this leisurely movement could lead, within hours, to them going all the way to the other side. And I didn’t want to leave that possibility open.
I’m a lot like these animals. I could happily graze for eight hours a day. And I practically eat grass. (I have a friend who does — but she picks it and blends it into wheatgrass juice, rather than eating it straight out of the ground.) The point is, if I could just have bowls of fruit and vegetables in front of me at all times, I would probably snack on them without stopping.
After shepherding, it was time to go in and eat things. I also went back to the Beit Knesset to enjoy some of the service from my private booth (which wasn’t fully set up this time.) After a while of snacking back at the house, we got up enough energy to clear the table and set up for Shabbat lunch.
“You can make kiddush on bread, if you don’t want to drink anything,” was among the tidbits of Torah that I learned.
After lunch I took a nap, and I awoke to the British guy reading Talmud (translating it into English) and making comments after each line. I thought, how amazing that the study never ceases. He was reading Pesachim, the section that deals with Pesach. Apparently the first several pages are about chametz, what we get rid of before Passover. The next few pages are about matzah, what we eat on Passover. And after that is maror, the bitter herbs. He needed to read all of Pesachim, apparently because his family is full of high-level Torah learners, and he found it exceptionally boring. “Don’t worry, only…. 28 more pages to go!” But I found his commentary entertaining. And his persistence was impressive — he kept reading it for the rest of the day. (Though he didn’t finish.)
I keep having this fantasy that I would spend Shabbat somewhere alone where I could read my books, and it keeps not happening. But I could adapt the fantasy.
“Want to hear something from my book?” I asked the crowd.
They had already made fun of the title - Becoming a Master of Time. But they were open to hearing excerpts of it interspersing his tractate of the Talmud.
One section I read was about the dimensions of time, space, and soul, alluded to in certain acronyms in Hebrew. When the Temple stood, the holiest time was Yom Kippur; the holiest space was the Holy of Holies; and the holiest soul was the High Priest, who went into the Holy of Holies only at a certain time on Yom Kippur. But now that we don’t have a Temple, the holiest time is Shabbat (yay! That was now!), the holiest space is the home (the kitchen table is like the altar, etc.) and the holiest soul is every Jew (these guys disagreed with that.) After I read a few pages, the man holding the Talmud responded.
“See, that’s interesting. I’d much rather be reading that. I could get lost in Kabbalah. But what am I supposed to do with that?”
I thought to myself, he won’t get to read the next section, where this is all supposed to apply to time management. I’m lucky that I have the book.
But it’s also interesting. Some people like to read in-depth details about laws, what’s forbidden and permitted, what time to eat this or burn that or what to do if you left something at home in the oven and forgot about it… They need tangible things they can do something with. And some of us live in our heads, wanting to know what the metaphor is and the meaning behind all these things, even if our attention to the details of observance isn’t very precise. This could explain why men need to occupy themselves with reading the Talmud, and women are considered inherently more spiritual and exempt. But it doesn’t hold true across the board for gender.
At another point the other guest said to me, “You’re a new baalah teshuvah, bright-eyed and excited about everything. But I have grown cynical about certain things in Judaism.”
Let me explain why this tickles me. A baal(ah) teshuvah is someone raised secular Jewish, who decides to live a more observant life. This guy started researching religions at age 17, and now at 21 lives in Israel and studies at yeshiva and observes the commandments. Whereas I have been studying this stuff for at least 17 years.
“Bright-eyed and new?” I responded. “I’ve been into this stuff for almost your entire life!” I didn’t want to give too many details, because these guys probably assume I’m in my 20s, like them.
But maybe that’s the secret to my youth. Renewal! It’s discussed in an earlier chapter of my book about time — the universe is constantly renewing itself. And we, too, can be in constant renewal. And maybe that’s why I seem so young to people — because I stay bright-eyed and excited!
Even though I’ve been in this Jewish world for a lot longer than this guy, and I’ve also become very cynical about a lot of things. Cynicism ages us. Enthusiasm and fresh new energy keep us young. At any age.
But the day wore on. When the sun set and three stars were visible, it was time to make Havdallah, the ceremony marking the end of Shabbat. For sweet-smelling spices Mark had rose water, and we could pour it on our hands.
“Now that Shabbat is over, we can use electricity again!” I said, mocking the fact that they don’t believe electricity is forbidden on Shabbat.
“I can’t wait!” Mark said in a sarcastic, enthusiastic voice.
Then one of the guys started explaining to me how the humour on this farm is 60% ironic. I just want to say something here, because this has happened to me a number of times in my life. I will make a joke, and someone will piggy-back on my joke, and then they will get the credit for making the joke. To use a hockey reference (and because I’m Canadian, I have to,) that’s like me bringing the puck to the net, and somebody tapping it in. Do I seem like somebody who is not aware of the jokes that I am making? (Actually, sometimes that happens, too.)
Okay. That just needed to be said.
An hour after Shabbat, busses start running again. Most of the guys were going to hang out all night, but one of them needed to get back to a city soon. So I hitched a ride with him from one of the yeshiva guys to the electric gate and into a bus stop in Efrat, and went back home to Jerusalem to see my roommates and sleep.
It was fun to hang out with sheep and goats. And men. And wild dogs. I hope to go back sometime. And now I can appreciate “Chad Gadya” and “My father was a wandering Aramean…” at the Passover Seder, and much of TaNaKh, and living in this land, in a whole new light.
Because everything in Judaism comes from a physical, grounded place. People actually lived this way, and struggled with these issues. In modern times, a lot is studied in yeshiva from an intellectual place. Like, what do you do if you see your enemy’s donkey? Well, first of all, have you ever actually seen your enemy’s donkey? It’s like people who study Shakespeare but have to guess what words mean or what puns refer to. But here, I get to walk the land, experience the lifestyle, see the people who are affected by it. Because we’re not meant to just study Torah. We need to live it.