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Oct. 7, 2005
Hope springs in the desert sun
A month after they left their homes, Atzmona evacuees are united
in temporary shelter.
SHARON KANON ISRAEL PRESS SERVICE
Is this Ir Emunah?" I asked the taxi driver when he dropped
me off by some old caravans in a neglected field and what looked
like an abandoned industrial structure. "If you have emunah
(faith)," he answered ruefully. Ir Emunah, City of Faith,
is the name that the stoic evacuees from Atzmona in Gush Katif have
given to their new dwelling-place.
"We are all holding on with our fingernails," was one
of the first remarks I heard when I walked into the big hangar-like
structure that houses the evacuees. It's a derelict factory in a
moshav a few kilometres from the Negev town of Netivot, south of
Beersheva. The owner has allowed the evacuees to use it until they
find a suitable place to re-establish their community of 55 families.
"When we first came a month ago, it only had a metal frame,
a cement floor and one partial wall," said Tirza Gavrielli.
"There was also no electricity or bathrooms, only four large
rectangular tents, bed frames and mattresses." Even with improvements,
the scene is reminiscent of the ma'abarot (transit camps)
of the 1940s and '50s.
Despite the difficulties, obstacles and challenges – mostly
because government compensation has not yet been forthcoming –
the Atzmona residents are transforming the primitive conditions
into a livable situation. Fifteen families live in caravans outside
of the "hangar." The rest live in tents provided by Amanah,
the settlement organization within the Green Line.
Inside the hangar, there is a lot of action and a lot of noise,
as volunteers unload boxes from a big van inscribed with the words,
"Purchased with the assistance of the Norwegian Friends of
Gush Katif, One Israel Fund, and donated by the Kaufman girls of
Bloomfield Heights, Michigan."
Amid the noise of construction wafts the sound of a shofar, the
sound of the Hebrew month of Elul and the Days of Awe. The shofar
notes are meant to confuse the devil and are plaintive and triumphant.
The men are making a roof, which they hope to finish before the
rainy season begins. Because of this, said Nitza Antman, whose husband,
Aryeh, a farmer, is in charge of the building, "We have to
put up with drilling all day and the noisy electric generator all
night." Upstairs, they have already completed 16 classrooms,
complete with writing boards, chairs and tables for boys and girls
in grades 1 through 8.
"The children have the same teachers and the same classmates
they would have had in Atzmona, so they adjusted quite well,"
said Iris Kalfa, the school's art teacher and wife of Zuvulun Kalfa,
head of Ir Emunah's "city council."
Three rooms for toddlers are being readied on the ground floor and
two nursery school teachers show me the wood-like linoleum floor
that was laid the previous night.
Antman, a mother of 11, finishes washing her floor before taking
me inside her incredibly neat tent – one of 12 family units,
partitioned from a large rectangular white canvas tent, with window
cut-outs. The tent consists of a room for the parents and two rooms
for the children, separated by hanging sheets. Each room has one
bunk bed and extra mattresses, which are piled high on the top bed,
as well as plastic and metal closets, tables and chairs. Most of
the family's belongings are in storage and each child has essential
clothes only.
It is 9:30 a.m. and a nursery school teacher brings Antman's youngest
son over. He doesn't want to go to the nearby moshav to see a program
for children. Antman doesn't appear surprised, as she knows that
Amir doesn't like to be separated from her. "We do, however,
need to give the children order," she said. "They are
confused and scared."
During class intermission, Antman's 10-year-old daughter ambles
over to say hello, hops on a bicycle and rides off to the toilets,
which are located at the far end of the building. The women's toilets
and showers are fully enclosed by wood boards and the enclosure
contains a trough with faucets. "It's awkward to wash up and
brush our teeth in front of everyone," said Antman.
Two washing machines and two dryers stand next to the toilets. "We
sign up to do our laundry," said Antman.
Michal C. takes me to her caravan. Her husband, a scribe, is at
work in a corner of their bedroom (he just began working last week).
Four young children live in the caravan with them. Their older children
live in tents.
A volunteer electrician is connecting wires. "We just got water
and electricity on Friday," said Michal. "We really value
each improvement. We now have a toilet and one of my friends even
has air conditioning [although] I think I would trade my toilet
for an air conditioner."
"Our home in Atzmona was very simple compared to others, some
of whom had very large, beautiful homes," said Michal. "But
the children long for their home. My five-year-old son asks, 'Can
we go see our house? Is the lemon tree still out front?' "
Local caterers and moshavim donate or provide at cost one hot meal
a day. The community kitchen does not have ovens, only refrigerators.
Bat Mazal Alfasi, a pretty smiling woman, puts in more than 12 hours
a day running the kitchen. Her only experience was working for a
caterer when she was 16.
"The government expelled us, but they did not organize,"
said Gavrielli, taking time to talk to me as I toured the kitchen.
"A hotel is not a home." She tries to be positive, though.
"See the boys washing the floor?" she said, pointing to
a group of teenagers. "We are going to have an engagement party
for my daughter tonight."
Nearby, five boys are kneeling over a wooden rectangle on the floor.
"What are you building?" I asked. "Steps," they
answered. It is obvious that they have no experience in carpentry.
"There are no steps to the caravans and it is difficult for
older people when they come to visit," they said.
I then come across Pnina, an old-timer who had been in Atzmona since
it was first established. "We lived in paradise," said
Pnina. "It was extraordinary."
Like most of the others, Pnina did not pack ahead of time. "We
don't know where we are going," she said. "The only thing
that helps is that we are together."
I join the groups of people who are moving towards the two attached
caravans that serve as synagogues. In the midst of all the construction,
unpacking and meetings, the celebration of a brit begins. The baby
is the grandson of two well-known Atzmona rabbis, Rav Rafi Peretz
(and his wife Michal) and Rav Nahum Rachel (and his wife Shula).
The baby's name? Amichai, which translates as, "my nation
lives."
For a while, their pain is nudged aside by the joy of birth.
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