(Author: Marge Clouts, Vol. 73, No. 2, Rosh Hashanah 2018)
When retirement looms, the tricky problem of how to dispose of sentimental items, many of Jewish interest, presents practical and emotional difficulties. Children may not ‘have room’ for them, and the options of selling, giving to a charity shop or throwing away seems a waste and a shame. I myself searched in vain for a home for my stash of 70-year-old letters and photos from Israel. This is how I came to possess them.
Back in 1948, the National Party had just gained power in South Africa and the Israeli War of Independence was not quite over when eleven of us arrived at the offices of the South African Board of Deputies (SAJBD) and presented ourselves to the section dealing with aliyah. We must have seemed an odd and unprepossessing group. Only four of us had any hachsharah experience (collective living and serious farming in preparation for kibbutz life), just two could speak a moderate Hebrew and we were barely in our twenties. We were all ex-Hashomer Hatzair members, now belonging to no Zionist youth group, but still determined to live the life of equality and justice which we understood that the kibbutz exemplified. We had come to the SAJBD to plead for assistance in making aliyah, since we ourselves had neither the means nor the know-how, and also did we know of any kibbutz that might accept us. It is not surprising that we were politely but firmly refused.
Our next plan was to get together enough money to go it alone, initially to Britain, and then to find some way to get to Israel by ship. This was a very vague and hare-brained scheme, but at that time there were no direct flights to Israel, and making aliyah was very hush-hush. Some of us earned extra money, or counted on parental support, and our one long-standing couple decided to get married and fortunately received generous wedding gifts. When we reported back to the SABD with our new funds and new decision, they had a change of heart. We were initiated into certain procedures relating to the circuitous journey and before we left, were presented with a small volume of Bialik’s poems with a Hebrew inscription and the date: 20.8.48. I still have the book.
My mother was a passionate Zionist and a prominent member of WIZO, yet it saddened her greatly that I was refusing to avail myself of all that Johannesburg could offer. She herself had longed to go to university, but it had been financially impossible. I had been given that opportunity, but shortly before completing my B.A. at Wits, had given it up. My mother felt strongly that having done so in order to labour in a kibbutz kitchen or laundry was utter foolishness. She asked me at least to send her and my father a weekly letter, which I promised to do.
When we finally waved good bye at the airport and entered the plane which was to take us to Rome, we were somewhat shocked to find just two facing rows of metal seating, designed for parachutists. We had to touch down every night – first in Entebbe and then in Khartoum. After landing in Rome, we flew to Israel in another plane, this time with normal seating, but with fiercely rattling windows. We had flown all the way with other young people intending to join the Haganah.
The excitement of landing in Israel was intense. We did not land at Lod (now Ben Gurion) airport, but on some very small airstrip. We were then transported by truck to the army base at Tel Levitsky. A few days later, in Tel Aviv, we visited the welcoming and comforting South African Office. The kibbutz they found for us was called Bet Keshet, a four-year-old basic settlement of about seventy Sabras located in the foothills of Mount Tabor in the lower Galil. The settlement had recently been traumatised by the deaths in an ambush of seven of its leading members.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row] Bet Keshet kibbutz members. The author is centre, back row. Others in the photograph include Sam Fanaroff (far right), Gerard Siedner (far left, arms folded) and Vivian Rakoff (third from left, back row). We were warmly welcomed at Bet Keshet. Several army-type barracks made up the entire accommodation, with two larger buildings – the chadar ochel (dining room and kitchen) and the communal shower blocks. The sandy paths linking these structures and the more distant, very basic lavatories became hazardous streams of sticky mud in the rains of winter. A nearby hill called ‘the Sheb’ was where the permanent kibbutz was to be built in the future. On our first Sunday at Bet Keshet we heard the church bells of the monastery on Mount Tabor, and at the same time the ominous sounds of distant gunfire. My letters home described the place and the people, who now included forty or so young Bulgarian refugees who had been allocated to the kibbutz with no knowledge of its principles, and had no wish to be there. Many sad Russian songs filled the night air. The hard slog of repetitive work was enlivened by such occasional diversions as a Purim fancy dress evening, a visit to a Circassian village wedding or a trip to Tiberias and Lake Kinneret. After a while was ‘hired out’ with a few others to work in the kitchens of the Kadoorie Agricultural College. We daily walked the few miles there and back through the fields. My comfortable South African life had not prepared me for scrubbing pots and pans – I learned the hard way. I kept up the weekly correspondence, with a few judicious omissions, and my mother kept all the letters, passing them on to me much later. After a year or so, only one of our group remained on the kibbutz – she and one of the Sabras had fallen in love. Years later they too had left for Tel Aviv, as did many of the original kibbutz members. I have lost touch with some of our group who had dispersed, firstly within Israel, and later emigrating, some returning to South Africa. I know two of us landed up in Canada, three in Britain and one in France. That year was unforgettable for all of us. We had many photos taken. Recently, not knowing what to do with them, one of our group had the bright idea of writing to Bet Keshet, asking if the kibbutz would be at all interested in having them. They were! Indeed, they were delighted to have some record of the early days for the kibbutz museum (yes, a Kibbutz Museum!). I wondered if my letters could possibly be of any interest to them. Yes! Now relevant sections have been translated into Hebrew and are displayed in the museum. We certainly never dreamt we would become ‘history’! I am amused, relieved and grateful to have come upon an unexpected solution for that pile of papers. Among other mementos, I still have a small, round container made of treated orange peel, with a biblical figure of a woman carrying a jug painted on the cover. This enterprising ornament is now somewhat shrunken and misshapen, but remains a treasured farewell gift to me when I too left Israel in 1951. Anyone interested?
Building and work on the hill called ‘the Sheb’, where the permanent Bet Keshet settlement (now flourishing) was to be.
Marge Clouts spent two and a half years in Israel soon after the founding of the state. Following her return to South Africa, she married the South African Jewish poet, Sydney Clouts. After Sharpeville in March 1960 the couple, with their three sons, moved to London, where they started a literary agency. Marge also taught English as a Foreign Language, English literature in various London colleges and Creative Writing in the Cotswolds. She has written many literary reviews for Jewish Renaissance and other publications.
