The Wrong Prescription

Introduction: This is the story of my experience at Agr. Coop. Mogliazze in Northern Italy, where I was to spend two weeks as an agricultural volunteer. I arranged to work there through World Workers On Organic Farms (WWOOF), a very reputable and truly wonderful organization that connects willing workers with farms that host them. After leaving Mogliazze, I enthusiastically referred two other travelers to WWOOF Italy. This is the worst complaint WWOOF has ever received, so I do not intend it to defame the organization in any way. They recognize the danger of the situation, and have opened an investigation. I hope that potential WWOOFers will have wonderful experiences, as the overwhelming majority of people do!
***

Late at night, during a phone call that I place without the knowledge of my hosts, my brother asks me if there was a moment when I realized that I had to leave Mogliazze as quickly as possible. Was there a moment when everything around me fell into the surreal clarity that I was not safe?
***

My arrival at the Piacenza train station coincides with the arrival of a foot of snow. Martino, the older of two children in my host family, picks me up for the normally short trip to his family’s organic farm – Agr. Coop. Mogliazze. He points out the growing presence of industrial agriculture as we drive towards the Alpinines, emphasizing the importance of helping small farms to survive. I completely agree with him. Each turn brings us higher into the mountains. Leaving the last small village behind, we arrive after nearly an hour of carefully climbing to our destination at 800 meters – the road ends, and we park the car. It is the most beautiful place where I have ever set foot.

Mogliazze is a collection of about a half-dozen large stone buildings with slate roofs; leaning against a mossy wall, I can watch the occasional cloud drift through valley below. I have planned to stay on as a volunteer for two weeks, and my initial impressions have me sold that that this is a fantastic idea. I’ll help to produce good food from healthy soil, learn new kinds of work, and enjoy the quiet of the mountains – I am ready to settle in.

My roommate, Sebastiano, eagerly shows me around Mogliazze and we strike up a friendship as soon as we meet. After a couple of hours working and chatting, we come back to our room and hang out as I unpack. The first thing I notice on Seba’s desk is a worn copy of Primo Levi’s "Survival in Auschwitz," in the original Italian (originally titled “If This Be A Man" –“Se Questo E Un Uomo”). When I ask him about it, he explains that he has many Jewish and Israeli friends, and this book deeply impacted him. He has read it several times. Seba asks if I knew that Auschwitz Liberation Day was the previous Thursday. I do – I visited Sauchsenhausen concentration camp that day. Our conversations are honest, laid-back, and consistently interesting.

After dinner, Seba explains that Pierro is a doctor famous throughout northern Italy for his “Blood-Group Theory”. As Seba talks, I begin to understand the completeness of the doctor’s philosophy: Pierro believes that he can prevent and cure any disease through creating individualized dietary plans, based almost entirely on a patient’s blood group. That first evening, I had seen him writing out paper after paper at the kitchen table, and Seba says that he was creating these dietary prescriptions. The cookbook next to hearth, authored by his daughter Esther, is a compilation of his recipes for different blood groups. Esther’s older brother, Martino, is in school for bio-medicine, planning to follow in his father’s footsteps. Velia, the wife, runs the farm while Pierro is seeing patients three days per week. Not sold on the idea, but interested in learning more and ready to help regardless, I go to sleep.

We do not talk too much as we work, and I come to deeply enjoy the relaxed atmosphere. I wake up at 7:30 (almost) every day, and work 6-10 hours. With each task, I can immediately see the fruits of my labor: bags of dried apples, large piles of freshly cut firewood, and stacks of neatly labeled herbal medicines (of dubious effectiveness, but “work is work” I say to myself). I read my philosophy books and practice Hebrew in the evenings, hang out with Seba, and go to bed by midnight each day. I learn that another volunteer had been there for a year and a half, and one for several months. I start to feel a bit uneasy because everyone else seems to believe fully in Pierro’s medicine, but I am happy. I come to enjoy the relaxed pace of life, the wonderful food, and especially my friendship with Seba. For my first lunch, Esther had cooked a wild-mushroom risotto that I will remember for the rest of my life – far and beyond the best Italian food I have ever tasted.

Four days in, I call my family for the first time since arriving, and return to the room just past midnight. I start changing in to my pajamas, and am about to turn out the light. Seba wakes with a start. He pulls on his clothes, grabs an orange folder, straps on his boots, and briskly disappears out the door, grimacing – all within 45 seconds. I barely have a chance to ask if he is OK. I can’t sleep, so I write in my journal. The next morning, I wake up with a small infection at the back of my lower gum. Seba says he has been to the hospital with Pierro and Velia, spending the night throwing up and heeled over. He returned to the room at 6am. He says that he is OK, and looks genuinely content. I assume that everything is alright and I am glad that he plans on resting throughout the day.

I check in on Seba throughout the day, and continue with my routine through the first week. The highlights of life at Mogliazze far outweigh my queasy lack of confidence in the medical effectiveness of everything that I am helping to produce. Pierro even teaches me how to herd sheep! I will always remember that afternoon very fondly; relaxing in the pasture, watching over Pierro’s flock, I gladly soak in the breathtaking mountain vistas. I don’t want my friends, family, or teachers to know that I am having second thoughts about my farm choice, so I write a blog-post highlighting my most enjoyable memories and the stunning natural beauty.

During Shabbat, Pierro and Velia are happy to grant me a full day of rest. I start working again on Sunday. My gum has swollen from the infection that began on Thursday morning, and the aching has spread farther back and down to my limphnode. I had tried to fix the problem with more careful brushing and saltwater washes, but realize that it is time to call my dentist at home for advice. I had the same problem about three years ago, and Dr. Finkelstein immediately prescribed prescription-strength mouthwash and penicillin. I resolve to call him as soon as business opens in America after the weekend. Over that weekend, I had not mentioned anything about my gum to Pierro, and worry that I will cause disrespect by calling a different doctor.

I go to work as normal that Monday morning, anxiously waiting until 3pm when Dr. Finkelstein’s office opens at home. He says that salt water rinses will be OK for immediate treatment, but that I should see a doctor as soon as possible in order to obtain antibiotics. They sell a proper mouthwash over the counter here, so I can easily get that in a Pharmacy. If it spreads farther, then it could become very serious. A gum infection might sound rather unimportant, but like any serious infection it is painful and has the potential to grow rapidly.

I call my mother to tell her that I have a small infection, but that everything is under control (a white lie). Truthfully, I am deeply concerned about how Pierro will react. I have noticed that no one here questions Pierro’s medical practice, not even in polite curiosity. I asked him about once, and he laughed off my question, explaining that some cars run on diesel, others on gasoline. It is dangerous to put the wrong fuel into your body.

I politely approach Velia, Pierro’s wife. She is more comfortable with English, and more outgoing in general, so we have a closer relationship than Pierro and I. I explain as clearly as I can, eventually with the help of Seba, that I need to see a doctor at their earliest convenience - preferably that night, but the next day would be OK. She eventually agrees that Seba can give me a ride to the nearest hospital (only 8km, but 400+ meters of descent), and he will help to translate my needs into Italian when we arrive. For all of our differences, I really like Seba. He believes in Pierro’s medicine, and does not consider himself to be scientifically minded, but he is a very warm, compassionate, intelligent guy. I can see concern enter his eyes; I had helped him while he was sick, and he is ready to help me.

As Seba translates my request to Velia, her apparent disinterest slightly troubles me. I had been living with them for eight days, working, eating, and relaxing together. Velia had always laughed and smiled as we tried to understand each other, between her broken English and my choppy Spanish-informed Italian. Rather than appearing worried by my infection, as I had expected, she looks frustrated. I assume that this odd reaction has to do with car-related logistics. So I go to brush my teeth and collect my medical papers. As I am gathering my things, I hear a heated altercation below my window.

Seba walks sheepishly over as I emerge with my bag. Doctor Mozzi (Pierro) had said that I only need one doctor, and he will take responsibility for my medical care whilst I am in his home. If I want to go to the hospital, I can walk there (a very bad idea, as the sun is already low in the late-afternoon). He has taken me under his medical custody; suddenly, my gum infection is only part of the problem.

I walk with Seba to the Kitchen, and he translates my explanation that I signed up to be Pierro’s agricultural volunteer, not to be his patient. I carefully and politely explain that I fully respect his medical capabilities, but that I would rather follow my trusted doctor at home. I am grateful for his hospitality, but I am a man capable of making medical decisions for myself. The conversation turns into a debate, ending with him yelling at me, three times in a row: “You are a vegan, and now you need drugs!” He does not mean pharmaceuticals.

Returning to the phone, I confer with the friendly hygienist at Doctor Finkelstein’s office. I ask what she thinks the timeline is for treatment: It should be alright to wait a day or two, but I should definitely increase saltwater rinses. I should get on penicillin as quickly as I can, and if the infection is not fully abated then I should seek further treatment when I arrive in Israel. She can tell that I find my situation painfully amusing. I give only cursory details.

When I come back into the kitchen after the phone call, Pierro eagerly tells me that I caused the inflammation mostly on Saturday. I had eaten couscous and tomatoes that day. He gives me a list of what foods to eat, and what foods not to eat. I politely tell him that I will try his advice for 24 hours, and if it does not work then I will see another doctor – he nods reluctantly. So I will eat potatoes and white beans for a day, I say to myself, then I can go to a real doctor.

As Pierro prescribes my diet, he notices that my hands are cold. I just came inside, and I am also rather nervous – so this is hardly surprising. He asks: “Do you want to have hot hands?” Confused, not sure what to say, I nod slowly. He tells me to eat a plum and then suck on the pit for ten minutes, until my hands warm up. Being inside, my hands do warm up – next to the fireplace. Pierro quietly comes over to me, and gingerly examines my hands, turning them over in his own. He smiles widely from behind his long white beard, and motions others over. He shows them my hands. Look! The treatment has worked!

Pierro gives a short speech. He explains to everyone in the kitchen that he has warmed up my hands. His medicine works. Marvelous as this may seem, it is but a small feat for the potent plum. This humble fruit can also cure Parkinson’s in a space of 15 minutes! Pierro animatedly pretends that he has Parkinsons, and then his shaking arms stabilized – he is cured!

I remain polite, but it is a struggle. I force down a chuckle. At Mogliazze, you do not disagree with Pierro. You certainly don’t laugh about Pierro's plums!

I return to my room immediately after dinner that night, too frustrated to remain a silent patsy in Pierro’s kitchen. I cannot remember a time when I felt more uncomfortable, more frustrated. Each interaction with Pierro has pulled the knot in my stomach tighter. I write down the vast majority of these details that night, crystallizing them in writing, so that my memory will not rearrange them.

Seba returns to the room after two hours – much longer than normal. He appears frustrated, but calm. As he takes off his shoes, I stop typing and we fall into conversation. He asks how I feel – “Frustrated”. He explains that Pierro and Velia are very angry with me. They are extremely upset that I contacted my doctor at home. As we speak, Velia is probably on the phone with Esther, who arranges the WWOOF volunteers, livid that she allowed another f***ing American to visit. We always bring them trouble. The knot in my stomach might squeeze dinner back up.

Me giving them trouble? This idea is simultaneously nauseating and hilarious! I’ve had it.

I tell Seba I am going to see a doctor the next day, no matter what Pierro thinks. Seba sighs heavily – they told him to tell me that tickets to the hospital only go one way. I slam my computer shut. Can I at least get a ride?! Seba silently shakes his head: if anyone wants to see the doctor (save for a broken bone or clear emergency) then they are packing their bags and walking. Mogliazze policy. When you are here, Pierro is your Doctor. I make sure to ask Seba, very explicitly, if I understand him correctly. I do.

Then, Seba tells me his story. We are sitting in our cozy, rustic room, relaxing by the fire, and he wants me to stay at Mogliazze. He tells me what happened the previous week, when he was sick, throwing up in the night. He had wanted to visit the hospital too. He asked for a ride, and Pierro refused. He started walking. It was 1am. There had been a large blizzard, just days earlier, and the road down the mountain was covered in snow and ice: 8km, and 400m of descent. Pierro followed him as he walked:

Pierro told me, ‘think about this carefully: you could slip and fall off of the road, and no one would know where you are. Do you want to take that risk, or do you want to stay here and trust me?

He tells me this story, entirely relaxed, smiling, explaining how Pierro cured him:

We walked back up the mountain, and Pierro fed me hot water all night. I kept throwing up, and then I was all better. I thought I needed to go to the hospital. I didn’t. David: you should believe in Pierro. He can help you.

This is the moment that my brother would ask about over the phone the next evening. Seba’s delight with his situation deeply frightens me: he had been given the choice of lying frozen at the side of the road on a dark mountainside, or allowing Pierro to treat to him. Pierro wants me to accept the simple beauty of the mountains, the simple satisfaction of my work, the simplicity of his diet, the authority of his command. Consciously or not, he uses the remoteness of the location and the treacherous road to enforce his will. Seba’s story is not unique. He tells me other stories just like his own; everyone comes back up the mountain, he says, everyone realizes Pierro is right.

I am going to pack my bags. I need to get OUT of here. I am not safe at Mogliazze – nobody is. I signed up to plant vegetables - I never signed up to accept vegetables as the only legitimate medicine!

I can’t let them know that I am leaving (four days early). At best, it would mean a very ugly departure. At worst, it would mean I am staying. At the least, I need a strong mouthwash. So I follow Pierro’s diet for 36 hours. I let him think that I believe in him. Then, at first light on a Wednesday morning, Seba and I drive down the mountain. He believes in my right to leave, and fully understands why I don’t want Pierro to know. We get breakfast twice, and spend three hours talking about what has happened before he sees me off on the bus to Piaccenza. He does believe in Pierro’s medicine, but he also says that my departure inspired him to think for himself; Pierro’s dictatorial behavior disappoints him.

My brother has booked me a last-minute hostel in Rome, and I get an express train that would take me there as fast as possible. I had told my family just enough information for them to know I needed their help, but not enough to scare them. I call my mom as soon as I have cell phone reception, and we use up all of my minutes.

I arrive in Rome, and call a handful of close friends and my family with an internet phone, and tell them everything. I am safe, I am in a hostel in Rome, but they need to hear this story. Then I call my Professor, Cindy Frantz, a social psychologist at Oberlin College who I has been my teacher for the past two semesters. Stunned, she agrees with analysis that I defected from a low-level, but very real cult. Mogliazze met almost all the criterion:
--Charismatic authoritarian leader
--Likeable, warm members
--Brainwashing techniques/indoctrination: believe in the plum, believe in Pierro
--Required sacrifice: restricted access to the outside world, e.g. medical care
--Isolated, remote location: allows the cult to define reality, creates homogenous society, limits outside influence (a tool for controlling movement as well)
--Deception: when you sign up, there is no mention that you will need to denounce western medicine if you fall ill – I signed up to plant carrots!!
(source: Social Psychology Lecture,"Obedience and Influence," Professor Cindy Frantz, Oberlin College. Spring, 2010.)

When Professor Frantz compares Pierro’s plum speech to the eerily similar tactics of Jim Jones, the infamous leader of Jonestown, I feel simultaneously much better and much, much worse. I am not a vengeful person, but Pierro must be stopped. Somebody could become hurt. Pierro never acts with violence himself, but he cleverly uses the forces of nature and his remote location in violent ways. Whether or not he is doing so on purpose, the fact remains the same: Mogliazze policy. Rationally speaking, it is shocking that no one has become very hurt before – as far as I know.

Two days later, I have settled into enjoying Rome. Seba was supposed to have emailed me an update about what had happened after my departure from Mogliazze. He had agreed to translate the letter I left for Pierro and Velia, a letter that pulled no punches. I haven’t heard from him, so I call Mogliazze to make sure he is OK. Pierro picks up the phone, and he figures out who it is. The only word I understand is “Bastardo.” They let Seba talk to me for a few minutes – he is OK right now.

When I tell this story to friends and family, it is reassuring to hear everyone respond with shocked disbelief. When everybody around me was irrational, it was hard to know if I might not be the one who had lost his mind. I became paranoid against myself. I would look out the window at the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen, and I would want to accept that everything around me was OK. Pierro would smile as he showed me what foods I should eat, and I didn’t want to make him angry by politely disagreeing. I wanted to believe that I wasn’t paranoid. But paranoia was healthy. It was the only way to react. I had to leave.

...if you believe in it, it is a religion or perhaps The religion; and if you do not care one way or another about it, it is a sect; but if you fear and hate it, it is a cult.
-- Leo Pfeffer

Please note: I am sharing this story as a factual account that offers valuable lessons. As I explain in the story, I wrote these details down as they unfolded, recording them in my journal with meticulous accuracy. Over the past two weeks, I have woven together previously disconnected writing, and attempted to create an honest thread of my emotions throughout the experience. I would never have unwittingly entered into such a situation given the choice, but I have come to appreciate experience. I hope that you will learn as much as I have from this story; consider the moral importance of an independant and critical mind.

Of course, please feel free to be in touch if you have any questions or comments about what happenned.


I lived in the room up the stars, with the door on the balcony.


Bags packed, ready to go.


Seba and I spent the morning of my departure walking around Bobbio, until I left on the bus. Everything interesting was closed, but we enjoyed a long walk and two good breakfasts.

Herding Sheep

I have now settled in at Mogliazze, an organic farm high in the mountains of northern Italy where the mood is a laid-back learning by doing – in the liberating extreme where responsibility comes fast. For example, the sheep taught me how to herd them today. Doctor Pietro, whose family runs the farm, smiled warmly as he offered simple instructions in broken English: “You open the gate. You go around with them. You take them back in.”
Sheep are not very smart, but they run fast. I enjoyed about 3 minutes of relaxing as they munched the grass immediately outside the gate. The next thing I knew, they were hopping and jumping down the mountain, jostling along a narrow path under thick shoulder-high branches, and muddily splashing across streams. Equipped with a thin stick, and my trusty cross trainers, I followed in hot pursuit. We immerged in a wide open field, where I caught my breath and realized that herding them was more about partnership than leadership. As they turned to head back about 15 minutes later, I kept the sidetracked ones heading in the right direction with light taps on the rear.
As we ventured uphill towards the gate, I scooped up a little one who had fallen out breath. I carried him back to the barn, as my friend emerged from the woods to help close the gate. “Where were you?!” he asked, having woken from a hillside nap. With three short phrases of instruction, I had been trusted to take care of the entire herd (about 25) and guide them safely home. Hopefully we’ll go for another pasture-run tomorrow, and next time I’ll bring my cowboy hat.

I decided that it would be best to post an entertaining entry today, after last week’s reflection on Sauchsenhausen, and look forward to sharing deeper thoughts from the farm next week.


The East Side Gallery is longest remaining portion of the Berlin Wall. Approximately one hundred artists have reclaimed it as a celebration of unification.


The first morning at Mogliazze.

Sauchsenhausen

Today is my fourth on the continent, and I travelled into the darkest hours of history, visiting Sauchsenhausen Concentration camp just outside of Berlin. It was exactly what I expected, which means it was entirely different than I expected. Everything was normal. So everything was disconcerting. It was more saddening and disturbing than I could have ever imagined, just like everyone said it would be. A seemingly normal cobblestone – how many political prisoners, Jews, Roma, gays, passed over this stone, cried silently over it? A seemingly normal field, half brown in the winter – how many thousands stood here freezing, during 5:15am roll calls?

Everything is as it is supposed to be, according to the documentaries, the pictures, the testimony. But then there are the souls. You can’t capture souls on film or in words. They shudder in cramped wooden bunks. Their stomachs turn inward at roll call in the cold morning, after a breakfast of crumbs and water. They writhe on whipping blocks in the camp center, after failing to complete the afternoon work detail. They silently disappear, slowly snaking skyward. The camp is barren. Its victims have been erased from the book of life.

If we allow the crimes of the Nazi regime to depress us, to permanently sadden our limited time on earth, we are handing Hitler a posthumous victory – confining another soul within the walls of barbed wire that his SS erected at camps and Ghettos across Europe. The Holocaust commands us to celebrate diversity, to fill our lives with joy, and to make sure that all of humanity is privileged enough to experience life as rich as life can be. Liberation was not a single moment in 1945.

NB: I may post Sauchsenhausen pictures when I have a chance. As I've said, no words or pictures can capture the camp. Your life has to pass through the gate in order to experience the power of the site. Below, please find a wonderful and non-sequitorial shot of my unconventional arrival in northern Germany late Sunday night.


As we got closer to port, the fog became denser and denser. By the end of the day on Sunday, as we approached Bremerhaven (our destination port in Germany), we were sailing through a thick cloud turned deep orange in the midnight flood lights. 14 story cranes towered above our massive vessel, and 4-story container trucks were barely visible as they busily hummed through the misty stacks of cargo that would be coming on board.

Greetings From a Mid-Atlantic Closet!

Current Coordinates:
W 31 degrees and 08.5 minutes
N 46 degrees and 27.0 minutes

I am writing as the wind whistles overhead in a small closet on the Bridge Deck, labeled "Crew´s Post Office". The other passengers ("spare officers")and I are getting used to the boat´s regular 5-10 degree rolling as we put on our sea legs. In this little email station, where this is only a wooden desk and one computer, I am enjoying the challenge of staying balanced in the unwisely-chosen revolving chair. I can estimate how far we are rolling based on the swinging of an oversized russian calender that hangs over the desk. We can only send outgoing messages (via satellite), so I am thankful to my parents for pasting this text onto the blog site.

Today marks our farthest distance from land, and I just returned half-soaked from my daily walk around the main deck (I always go with a friend, employing the trusted "buddy system"). When I first walked outside this afternoon, the waves on our port side were sendind up a dense mist that created four rainbows in less than a minute! We have four meter seas today, which gently rock our creaking giant as she plows eastward at a steady pace of 20 knots. The ocean is simultaneously chaotic yet inspiring, heaving and unpredictable yet beautiful and relaxing. At home, our understanding of rising sea levels is often detached from the chaos and magnitude of the oceans themselves. The same oceans however, inspire awe and respect.

We will land in Germany this Sunday morning, and I hope to put up pictures and offer more thoughts when I am back on terra firma.


Sunset in Port Elizabeth, NJ. I call it "Star Wars Meets Van Gough" - it was a very surreal scene, taking in the sea of red and yellow containers stretching towards a bright red and yellow sunset! The scale of the equipment, like the 13 story crane at the right, which dwarfs the roaming 4-story truck in front of it, is something I would expect to find in the imagination of George Lucas.


The view inside the lifeboat was very reassuring as we headed out to sea. It is torpedo-shaped and orange, capable of holding all 25 people on board.


This picture requires no caption. Incredible.


A view between the stacks of containers.


Sunday was our first full day at sea. For dinner, Captain HJ Muthwill organized a smoked fish party and cheerily invited the passengers to join in. The chief engineer is the fellow in front, who was in charge of the "oven" (which was a converted barrel, in the back).

Environmental Pilgrimage: The Slow Trek To Israel

Early next week, I will board the MSC Tanzania in Port Elizabeth, New Jersey, for a transatlantic passage aboard the 300 meter freight ship. At first, I viewed the distance to Israel as obstacle to overcome. Now, I see it as an opportunity to learn. My trip will reduce carbon in the atmosphere – through planting and carbon credits – rather than pollute. I will volunteer in Europe, rather than contribute to worsening humanitarian crises that will result from climate change. I will visit sites relevant to Jewish history and my family’s roots, rather than flying over them. I look forward to spending half of a week in Berlin, followed by two weeks volunteering on an organic farm in northern Italy. I will arrive in Israel in mid-February, for a semester studying environmental science and peace-building.

My project-trip will address the reality of distance in a down-to-earth way. Long distance travel (especially by air) produces greenhouse gas emissions which ultimately contribute to rising sea levels and the displacement of future generations. Rising seas could create a humanitarian crisis in the Middle East, potentially displacing 2-4 million Egyptians living on the Nile Delta among other potential humanitarian crises in a geopolitically fragile region. Rising seas could also flood Israel’s coastal plain: Netanyahu and Abbas could draw the borders of a peaceful two state solution today, but climate change could rewrite their coastlines tomorrow. I did not want to return to Israel in a way that damaged my people’s homeland and displaced future generataions from their own.

I am not hoping to offer simple answers, but rather to share the questions that I am asking myself: what are the consequences of my actions? How are my choices and my life related with others across the world and across generations?

I look forward to writing blog posts approximately once per week, sharing the most powerful experiences and my reactions to them. When I arrive in Israel, I will be studying at the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies in the southernmost desert region, with a student body of 1/3 Israeli Jewish, 1/3 Arab/Palestinian, and 1/3 international students.


Many thanks to the Doris Baron Environmental Studies Student Research Fund and to the Winter Term Grant Committee at Oberlin College. This trip is only possible because of their generious support!

“Making the Desert Bloom”: Mormons, Zionists, and Tomorrow’s Water

I submitted my Udall Scholarship application last Monday, and wrote this essay about the connections between Udall's policy and my own ambitions:


When a desert blooms, the fruits of agriculture are rarely sustainable. Irrigated flowerbeds deceivingly pepper the landscape in temporary beauty. Just as the harvest season draws to a close every year, the days of intensive desert agriculture and desert flower beds are numbered when irrigation efforts overdraft water supplies. When agriculturists, homeowners, and policy-makers use water faster than it is naturally replenished, complex irrigation projects can temporarily alleviate drought but wreak serious environmental havoc.

Morris Udall favored construction of two major dams on the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon National Park during the 1960s, a policy that he later regretted as myopically irresponsible. As Zionists today struggle to sustain Israel for generations to come, Udall’s maturation serves as a microcosm analogy for change that must take place. Zionists have built incredible beauty in the land of Israel, but the days of ubiquitous flowerbeds must come to a close.

Udall explains his decision to support the dams in the context of his Mormon ancestry. His ancestors were in awe of the beautiful southwestern landscape, but also built many dams to supplement rainfall irrigation:

I was caught between my Mormon upbringing, my environmentalist leanings, and my constituents’ near unanimous support for the dams. My decision finally turned on one irrefutable fact: water is life in the desert. (Udall, pg. 54)

I am disappointed that he made this decision, but inspired that he came to condemn it later in his career. Water is life, but he later acknowledged that these were band-aid solutions: expensive projects that would be environmentally disastrous and unsustainable in the long run. These particular dams would have irreversibly damaged the Grand Canyon National Park, temporarily supporting an unsustainable desert population.

Similarly, Israel’s impressive water engineering served a hugely important role in building the country, but now plays an increasingly troublesome role, undermining the nation’s future. The writer and Politician S. Yihzar poetically captured this duality of triumph and destruction:

Making the desert bloom meant doing away with the wasteland, erasing the nothingness, exploiting completely all natural resources. We felt that if we succeeded in doing this thing, if we could conquer the wilderness, do away with it, make it bloom -- in other words, if we could settle it, build it up, make it not wild, not devoid of human values -- then we would have achieved the Zionist dream.

Israel must draw down on its water use, given that the Jewish State’s water withdrawal-to-availability ratio is one of the 10 highest in the world. The once-mighty Jordan River, where Jesus was baptized, is now a trickle. The Dead Sea, a true anomaly at the lowest point in the world (400 meters below sea level) is disappearing, leaving gaping sinkholes in its wake. Water rights divide Israelis and Palestinians. The country’s largest reservoir, the Sea of Galilee, is shrinking. Israel must turn its policies around, as Morris Udall did.

These environmental crises require visionary demands of rewritten agricultural policies, impassioned calls for systemic change. They require an understanding that there is a harsh future in store if environmental limits remain ignored. When Udall looked back on his decision to endorse the dam projects, he realized that there might simply be too many people in the arid southwest. With Israel growing, it could do well to look at Udall’s thoughts. The pressing demands of constituents must be taken with a grain of salt. He sought a pragmatic balance between development and preservation. The civilizations of these two deserts irrefutably have the right to exist, but water must be used carefully if they are to exist for our children.

Udall’s self-criticism offers a clear model for the maturation of Israel’s water policies. Both heritages, Mormon and Zionist, are inspiringly rich with hardworking civilization builders. They can inspire us all to look back at our ancestors who toiled to shape the land, to eek out a basic survival. Mormon and Zionist settlers took awe in their landscapes, shaped the land, and built the societies that we must sustain for future generations. It is my dream that Israel, as a “light unto nations”, may become an example of sustainable development for the world.


An exuberant Carter beats Udall in the 1976 Wisconsin primary election. The election was so close that one newspaper actually misprinted its headline... "Dewey defeats Truman" anyone?

From the Diaspora...

Since Monday morning I have met 3 inspiring professors, 1 outlandishly friendly journalist, an impassioned CEO, and 1 cousin who I had never known existed! I have been through the bowels of several central bus stations, toured a checkpoint, witnessed the complex reality of Palestinian life on the Green Line, and I have made my way half-way around the world, back home to the Diaspora…

This entry is rather lengthy. So if your time is limited then I suggest reading the first section as a basic summary of my trip. I will add photos and more thoughts as time and internet access allow.


This Blog Marches On!!

“I, the Lord, have called you in righteousness, and will hold your hand and keep you. And I will establish you as a Covenant of the people, for a light unto the nations.” ¬ –Isaiah 42:6

This blog is not dying! We must keep the reality and wonder of Israel alive in our hearts and our minds. For non-jews, secular jews, and religious jews alike, the grassroots change happening in Israel is like none other in the world, because Israel is an absolute anomaly. Not only does this dwarf-state host the diversity of an entire continent, but its unique challenges make it a beautiful model for what is possible.
In relating the final stories and emotions of my trip, I hope to relate the sense of potent opportunity that pervaded my sojourn in the Jewish state. Yes, Israel absolutely has its faults. However, Israel also does incredible things. If it is possible for Israel to become a place of ecological sustainability, and peaceful coexistence, then forging sustainable peace must be possible anywhere. You may say that this is not possible, and indeed it is a high bar. However, the inspirational leaders I have met would be rather upset (as would I) if you consigned their passionate struggles to the realm of the naïve.
This semester I am working part-time for the Environmental Studies Department at Oberlin, and my work will focus on maintaining connections with institutions and individuals across Israel. I will write less frequently, perhaps every week or two, following the evolving thread of my passion for Zionism.
As I discussed with a mentor in Jerusalem earlier this week, I hope to create a book within 2-4 years. As I have begun to do, this opus would follow grass-roots change-makers in the footsteps of great thinkers and philosophies. As a resource, I hope this could inspire those keen on making a difference anywhere, not only Israel. Israel is a fantastic classroom, and will hopefully become the world’s teacher.


Jerusalem

I visited Jerusalem several times during my trip. I always put off writing about the Holy City because it is nearly impossible to explain, and I knew I would be back soon. So, now, I’ll do my best to relate my wanderings there. It is a city great inspiration, true wonders, deep rifts, and true difficulties.
Jerusalem is home to holy sites of all three Abrahamic faiths – Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. I visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Christ is thought to have been crucified. A short walk from there, I prayed at the Western Wall, the last remaining portion of Israel’s ancient temple. After climbing steps away from the wall I could see the Golden Dome of the Rock just beyond, where Muhammad ascended to heaven accompanied by the angel Gabriel. The city is partitioned, and even the holy sites themselves are partitioned:
- At the Church, six Christian sects each control separate portions.
- At the Wall, men and women are separated.
- At the Golden Dome, also home to the Temple Mount, Jews and Muslim are separated.
This separation echoes the city’s separation in the East and West, which echoes separation felt throughout the country. Although Israel is very diverse, the vast majority of communities are homogeneous. I am pro-Israel, but do recognize that we must make changes.
Israel does not owe very much to those who want to destroy her. But, that label is not applicable in a vast number of cases. I’ll speak to this more under my reflection on seeing Barta’a with Muhammad. (One clarification: Just as Arabs deserve equal rights in Israel, Jews should be allowed to live in Palestine without threats of violence or expulsion.)
Jerusalem is not, however, a place of gloom and doom. The city is full of inspiration, not only from history and diversity. Just one example is the Church of Saint Vincent DePaul, a church offering care for children and orphans suffering from Chronic diseases.


Jerusalem International YMCA

“We are not human beings have a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience.”
– Great Buddhist Monk, as quoted by Forsan Hussein, CEO of the Jerusalem International YMCA

"Here is a place whose atmosphere is peace, where political and religious jealousies can be forgotten and international unity be fostered and developed."
–Edmund Lord Allenby, dedication of the Jerusalem Y in 1933

Across the street from the King David Hotel, which regularly hosts world leaders including US Presidents, this YMCA promotes coexistence, peace, and interfaith dialogue.
Forsan Hussein, a young Palestinian-Israeli, has been the CEO here for 6 months. He is the first Muslim ever to become head of a YMCA. I was lucky to meet with him yesterday afternoon, and found his vision very impressive. The YMCA may become a model for Jerusalem, which may model peace for Israel, the region, and the world.


Barta’a – Living on the Green Line

From the mountains above Barta’a, I could see the alleged path of the Green line below. And, it goes straight through Barta’a. On one side there is a green-dome mosque, and on the other a yellow, but other than arbitrary landmarks it is impossible to see the line.
When I drove into Barta’a with a friend that afternoon, nothing changed after we passed over the “border”. The real border, marked by a fence and Israeli checkpoints, is significantly further into the West Bank. But would it make sense to draw a real border through Barta’a, straight through the center of a bustling market place where we stopped to walk around?
The division in Palestinian communities is not so dramatic as a border. Muhammad, the friend I visited there, explained that national services like the post office are drastically underfunded. Jewish communities have nice parks, and functional national offices. He takes his children to nearby communities so that they can play outside, because these spaces are not available in his community.
I do not want to become too political, but there are definite injustices here. This may not be institutional racism, but is a clear discrimination that demands redress.


Givat Haviva: Hashomer Hatzair

The Hashomer Hatzair movement is a progressive Zionist youth movement. It is about equality, community, and social responsibility. The movement has an educational center at Givat Haviva in northern Israel, where Palestinians and Israelis come together for dialogue work as the basis of peace through friendship. The center offers art classes, women’s studies and Holocaust studies as well.


Last Evening, and Cousin Ross

On my last night in Israel, I was hastily doing arts and crafts before I needed to leave. I sat at my cousins’ dining room table making bookmarks as I gave them pointers on how to bend wires into cute animal figurines. It was a wonderful way spend my final evening, although I could have done a more careful job with packing…
As I sat at the table with dried flowers, paper, tape, and scissors, my cousin Ross came in the front door! We had never met before, but Batsheva (my cousin I was staying with) had mentioned that this then-mystery-character would be joining us for dinner. It turned out that we are both very interested in environmental issues, specifically in Israel, and we are nearly the same age as well. It seemed poetic that even as I prepared to leave, I would meet wonderful family members in Eretz Yisrael.


On Returning to the Diaspora (written aboard the bus back to Jerusalem, via Tel Aviv):

Breaking my gaze from the window to check the time, a gut wrenching reality nudges a tear from my eye. I have gotten to know the public bus system, the “Egged”, very well, and this time tomorrow Egged and I will be shlepping my baggage to Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. From there across the Mediterranean Sea, the Atlantic Ocean and back home to the Diaspora…
Now I sit on the fourth bus connection of the night from the junction where Muhammad dropped me off. From there to Hadera. Hadera to Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Jerusalem to Efrat. Farewell nighttime Jerusalem…