Wanderings in the north of my home(land)

Last week we went on a study tiyul to the north. These were the musings that came out of one of the days of learning. My thoughts were jumbled, but full of passion and potential insight for the future.

What is our connection to the land? Are we as humans able to make connections to the land, or is that ideological connection only one-sided and potentially unattainable?

We visited moshav Avivim and talked with one of the guys whose involved in the founding of the moshav. Located directly next to the Lebanese border, this moshav used to be open and the children played with each other. Now, the moshav is closed off by not one gate but two: the one surrounding the moshav and the one marking the border with Lebanon. While the story of the moshav and this particular man is fascinating, what struck me and a few others even more potently was the chicken coop. The moshav supposedly produces all of the eggs for the entire country of Israel. Next to the overlook where we were talking was located one of the coops. Walking over I was struck by the fact that all of the chickens were standing in a straight line, all squawking loudly. As I got closer I noticed they had two barriers between them and the outdoors (three if you count the roof/the fact that they were suspended from the ground). They were kept in a metal cage with a hatched bottom for their excrement to fall through and set at an angle to make their eggs easier to collect. Kept happy with a seemingly infinite supply of grain, these chickens are housed three to a cage. Then there is the problem of the outside fence, marking the barrier of the enclosure. The chickens could see out (again, the importance of a view of some sort depends on ones belief in animals having feeling).

The coop itself was fine, as I understand the importance of having a particular place to collect eggs. However, I could not stomach the idea that these chickens never got to be outside, not walk on this incredible soil. Turning to Abby, I exclaimed that I wasn't sure if I wanted to eat eggs any more, especially if they came from such a cramped and seemingly inhumane manner. She agreed and I walked on to explore.

A young man was entering the house as I turned the corner and I asked if I could come in. Actually, he invited me in if I wanted to take pictures. Of course I accepted. I was unprepared for what exactly the space held. Under the four rows of chicken cages (resurfacing the question of the necessity of space and fair treatment) were what looked like drip castles a kid might make on the beach. These were not made of sand. The excrement was almost a foot and a half high in some places, making me surmise that they rarely clean it out. Disgust welled up within me and I quickly ventured out to breathe next to the fruit trees.

Returning to the overlook site, I sat with Jordan and Abby, who were still discussing fair treatment and whether or not it is important to have some connection to what you, as a person, are partaking. We talked about how odd it is that so many people go through their lives without even considering what they are eating and the origin from which it comes. Recognizing the difficulty inherent in working the land and slaughtering an animal for food (never mind the negative connotation given to the word slaughter), we considered what kind of compromises were possible. The best suggestion was to be involved in the slaughter, because if we cannot physically kill an animal we wish to partake in the future, why is it acceptable to eat the meat? While I am not making any huge life changes now (my experience at Livnot last week taught me the importance of truly considering something before I implement it), I definitely feel a more profound necessity to acknowledge where my food comes from. I will continue to eat free range chicken and eggs as much as possible and consider other options as they are presented to me.

Jordan and I had an interesting continuation of the conversation once we reloaded the bus. He was grappling with the issue of the connection we have to the land. As land is not a thinking or feeling entity, how can we claim a connection when it is not necessarily reciprocated? If the Jewish people left the land tomorrow, would the LAND itself be saddened by the loss, yearning for the people?

Traveling through the land, sprawling with vineyards, orchards, pastures and beautiful trees, we were struck by this idea. Without "connection to the land", why would they have any desire to remain in the land? Without the idea of connection, it would seem the Jews as a people have less of a rationale for remaining in Israel and especially for the number of Kibbutzim and Moshavim built on that very same foundation.