Sidebar: UJC MetroWest partners in efforts for kibbutz's safety

KIBBUTZ EREZ, Israel — Wednesday, June 27, 2007, 400 meters from the Gaza border, a visitor can hear an explosion somewhere in the background as Yahel Benaris, 35-year-old manager of Kibbutz Erez, guides a group of visitors from New Jersey on a tour.

The kibbutz offers the sweet smell of flowers and fruit ripening in the hot desert sun. Sycamore trees show off their orange flowers; palm trees, wilting sunflowers, cacti, and desert scrub dot the landscape. We are in the Sha'ar HaNegev region of Israel, near the northeast corner of the Gaza strip.

Erez, one of 10 kibbutzim in the region, sits halfway between the Gaza border and Sderot, a constant target of Kassam rockets. Erez is rarely the aim of such attacks because of its size. With 450 people, it cannot compare to Sderot, a city of 20,000. But Kassam rockets, with a range of five miles, have poor aim, and sometimes Erez takes a hit.

The checkpoint known as Erez, once a symbol of cooperation, is no longer used. A white balloon resembling a Goodyear Blimp is ever present overhead, a reminder of the constant IDF surveillance of the area.

Erez is a classic Israeli kibbutz. Founded in 1949, it has not been privatized like other kibbutzim. Agriculture, including honey and avocadoes, now make up less than 20 percent of its annual income, estimated at NIS 90 million, or about $22.5 million. Eighty percent comes from its plastic factory, which produces items like pool and roof coverings, sold in the United States under the name Erez Thermoplastics Products, Ltd.

A new generation brings some white-collar income to the kibbutz, a reminder of the new balance between the individual and the collective, but the money is still divided according to kibbutz policy (a practice still true for many of the kibbutzim in the region).

Kibbutz Erez faces three constant threats: terrorist infiltration of the fence around the Gaza Strip and digging underneath the fence and — by far the greatest threat — the Kassam rockets. They have been falling on the area for the past seven years, announced 15 seconds in advance by a tzeva adom — red alert warning. "On quiet days, the alarm goes off two to four times every day. It does not mean a direct hit, but perhaps a fall in the surrounding area. When there is intensive shooting, we can get 40 to 50 warnings every day," said Benaris. In May, 2007, when attacks were particularly heavy, he recalled, "We once got 60 in 24 hours."

On a visit to Kibbutz Erez on June 27, Max Kleinman, executive vice president of United Jewish Communities of MetroWest NJ, right, presented Sha'ar HaNegev Mayor Alon Schuster, left, with a check for $28,000 for the kibbutz. Located at the northeast border with the Gaza Strip, the kibbutz has had a partnership with UJC MetroWest since Kassam rockets started falling there in 2000. Photos by Johanna Ginsberg

As the visitors tour in the dry desert heat, three Israeli tanks cross into Gaza headed for three separate attacks. We are unaware of the maneuver, but a few of us hear the explosion that we later learn kills 10 Palestinians in one town. At least three are killed in each of the other two locations, including a nine-year-old boy. Palestinians will claim they were innocent victims; Israelis will claim they were targeting Hamas. As the news media rush to the scene, the tour continues in Erez. In a little while, we see black smoke rising from behind the hills, just over the border.

Life follows its routines on the kibbutz by design; the army has ordered it that way. But the tension takes its toll on the residents. Vered Chebotzky, 20, grew up on the kibbutz. Over lunch in the hadar ochel — the dining hall — with the teens she supervises, she tells a visitor, "This situation started when I was about 13, my bat mitzva year. It was a very big change," she said. "Before, it's like all this area — it's our home. We were driving to the fields and we are going out on trips, no worries. When I was a little girl we went all the way to the fence, and we were standing there, and my father explained to me, here they are building a fence. We were standing a few meters from there. Now, we can't go there; we can't go near the fields. We can't go there alone. We can't go without permission from the army."

Chebotzky describes the impact the situation has on the teens she works with. "They are afraid. They are afraid to go alone at night. They are afraid to go to school if it's in the line of the Kassam. A few of them, they are not going to school at all. They feel safer in the kibbutz even though it's not so safe here." She worries about the lasting effects of the atmosphere of danger. "I'm afraid when they grow up all the memories will come out and they will have difficulties with the situation, and wherever they go, they will be scared."

The grownups have their own issues, according to Benaris. "Your home is not your castle. In Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, where terror kills dozens of people, at least in your own home you feel safe. Here, we don't have any completely safe place. Some people are in great tension. Some of the people can contain it, can hold it. We try to live regularly."

But those with children have other worries. The older ones go to regional schools that may be closer to danger; the routines of the younger ones who go to school on the kibbutz are constantly changing and undergoing interruptions. "There is permanent public discussion about where our kids are going to study and how, and exactly in which rooms," said Benaris.

We enter a renovated bomb shelter just steps from the children's new kindergarten location. (The regular kindergarten building was declared unsafe by the army, forcing everyone to a new location while a new Kassam-proof roof is added to the building.) Inside are arts and crafts supplies, paintings displayed on the walls, brightly colored mats — all suggesting a room at any preschool anywhere. Children play in the makeshift playground outside the school, just steps away. But they are always 15 seconds from the shelter, and a soldier sits among them. They are running and playing, but they feel the danger. "The kids are very confused because their daily routine changes all the time," said Benaris. "We take them out of their houses. The army says no good, move them here. We move them here, and the army says that is not good, move them to a shelter. They are confused. They have drills to run to the shelter — it's one of their games and they think it's fun, but they know something is wrong."

After seven years, there are two shelters and two safe rooms for adults. Although there are 14 shelters altogether on the kibbutz, most, remnants from the early years of statehood, are unusable. One by one, they are being renovated to comply with IDF regulations.

The violence has chased few families away, and numbers have remained constant over the last seven years. "We are not Sderot," said Benaris, who acknowledged that the situation is, however, deteriorating. A few families did leave earlier in the month, but returned after one or two weeks, he said. But even some among the most fiercely committed residents have talked of leaving, a turn of events that Benaris calls "shocking."

Most, however, seem to be taking the approach of 20-year-old Chebotzky. Asked if she would consider leaving, she said, "No, never. This is my home."