Blue Orange Green Pink Purple

fieldwork. literally.

Posted in Uncategorized. on Tuesday, July 5th, 2011 by Hadas Fruchter

Jul 05

My blogging ethic has been seriously out of whack for the last few weeks, and I apologize for that. Its not just having a full schedule that is causing my absence on the blogosphere. Its just that I’m having a harder time processing things here—in a totally different way than in London.

I was having a conversation with a friend of mine over the weekend about our respective relationships with Israel. We had really similar views and concerns about living here, but she seemed to deal with it ridiculously better than I was able to. I told her that I just had all this generalized anxiety about this place-I was thinking about so much; it was even hard for me to process to update the blog. She told me that she noticed that I, as a more emotional person than she is, seem to have a really hard time compartmentalizing complicated feelings about Israel.

So, yeah. That’s me. Still learning how to separate the struggle with Israel from my greater consciousness. No wonder I’m a bit exhausted when this is what is buzzing through my brain every day:

LOVEhatedefenseCIVILRIGHTShumanityJewishobligation?homeland.nationalism nationpeopleidenityDon’tlikefalafelballs.arabisraeliminoritiesrefugeesrights.opportunities.

restrictionsbetterthanotherplacesinthemiddleeast

butdoesntmakeitperfectsCATSEVERYWHEREhabbateverysaturdayWOMEN?happinessstressangersadnessMISUNDERSTANDING

westernwallsecurityfencewomenofthewallwomentothebackofthebusLIVINGTORAH.

But I know, it is important to process. And I said I would at the beginning of this journey, so here goes.

I wanted to tell you about a really interesting fieldwork trip I took with a colleague of mine through my internship. The goal of the trip was to research the effect of pesticides on migrant workers in Israel, specifically on Thai workers. Having called the farms in advance, we told farmers that we were American students doing a study on pesticides and agriculture, taking precautions so that they wouldn’t hide anything related to their workers from us when we visited their farms. We were going to rent a car, and drive all around the upper part of the country—and I mean all around. We were in that car for a long time.

Let me work backwards. I think you will like this image. At around midnight, I stumble through my apartment doorway, clothes starchy from dried sweat and my hair oily and windblown. I am clutching two overflowing shopping bags of sweet bell peppers in majestic yellows, reds, and oranges, and breathless, I dump them on the table.

My alarm clock played the iTunes Blues riff at around 4:55 AM. I rolled out of bed, showered, and got dressed. I threw my notepad and laptop in my backpack, along with a pile of snacks, and headed out. I did my typical commute to Tel Aviv (approx. two hours), and arrived at the Tel Aviv bus station.

My parents didn’t really want me to go on this excursion. They expressed to me that they felt it was dangerous. I felt as if it was a well-researched trip, and a safe one. Though I felt guilty about going against their wishes, I felt I went about it in a respectful way. I called throughout the day to check in and assure them that everything was fine.

Now, just as an aside, the Tel Aviv Central bus station is one of the most eerie and uncomfortable places I have ever been in. It reminds me of a nightmare. Kinda dark, really dirty. Since there are over 70 exits, how do you even leave? Should you even leave? Or is each exit a portal to a destiny of doom? All crucial questions.

Since I arrived a bit early, I bought a coffee and sat at a table near the coffee sop in the bus station. A man reading a newspaper offered me one, because he had two. I politely declined, but I almost instantly regretted it, as I wanted something else to look at besides the hunk of black goop in the corner on the floor near the table.

Eventually, my colleague picked me up a bright blue rental car, and we were on our way. We were refreshed, and excited to be on our way.

We drove for a little over an hour, and waited for our first farmer to show up so he could lead us to the fields. He was really late, because he had a flat tire, but he eventually came and we headed over to the main office.

We arrived in the office and two older men were sitting at a big desk, arguing loudly and examining an almond branch with a special magnifying glass. Two other men lounged in chairs, observing quietly. There were farming tools hung on the wall, and it seemed like it was some sort of farm shop.

A middle-aged woman with plastic-framed glasses (who we soon learned was the office manager) emerged from the other room with a plate of fresh-cut melon. We were quickly introduced. The man behind the desk with the white hair was the head farmer, the others were also of high rank on the small farm, and they had been there for many years.

The head farmer was an interesting man—he came across as the king of pesticides. He knew so much about them, and was instrumental in using them 50 years ago in Israel. There were black-and-white pictures of him, a sun-kissed young fellow, majestically spraying the chemicals on the fields. He sincerely believed that the lack of pesticides was more harmful than using them.

He continued with his story.“This war that they talk about? It’ on the television and the radio, not on my farm”. The room of men nodded in acquiescence. He points to his Arab colleagues, some who have been working with him for over 40 years.

Since my colleague did not know any Hebrew, I referred to my agricultural vocabulary list I had put together, and conducted the remainder of the interview in Hebrew.

We connected to these farmers through a manpower agency. The farmers we were scheduled to meet with all worked with one of the better manpower agencies, and so we were told in advance that they would most likely be good and humane employers. Though each farmer had a distinct personality and approach to their work, they for the most part treated their migrant workers with respect. We found this to be mostly true.

One of our questions was “If the workers are sick, do they get a day off to recover?”

The farmer looked at us with a puzzled expression and said: Of course he does…he’s a human being!

The first farmer we spoke with took his migrant workers, who he sees like family, on hikes and vacations, the second said that he felt a true camaraderie with them, the third mentioned that there were special rules in the kibbutz to protect them, and the fourth made sure they all had laptops and internet connection so they could stay connected to the greater world. This last farmer’s wife was also a nurse, and she told me that if anything at all went wrong with any of the workers, she would personally ensure that they would be cared for.

There was a general respect for the workers, but this didn’t seem to be true with the living conditions. All Thai workers lived in similar standards. The workers lived together in a type of small caravan, with sleeping areas, entertainment spaces, and eating rooms. The appliances, like washing machines and refrigerators, were outdoors. These living conditions struck us as simply sufficient, not respectful. If they are family, is this how you would treat them?

There was also an elitist mentality among the Israeli and Arab farmers. The Thai workers were less in some way. We asked how they learn the tasks, and one farmer responded that they are simple, unsophisticated, people. They repeat tasks. You just have to show them exactly what to do.

We saw and heard many interesting things throughout the day. The second farmer we visited had a bumper sticker that read; instead of “Israel will win!” it read, “agriculture will win!” Having come to Israel from America 30 years before, this farmer decided on a whim to devote his whole like to agriculture, and currently is in charge of irrigation on the kibbutz. He saw farming as a professional pursuit.

Another farmer was young, and told us that he used the fewest number of pesticides possible. He came at the whole endeavor from a scientific angle.

In between each stop, we debriefed, stopped for snacks and picked up Israeli pop stations and Syrian news stations on the radio. A cover of Alanis Morrisette’s Ironic was particularly painful, though most of it was pure, unadulterated, eighties pop.

Our last stop was definitely my favorite. The farmer had brought his wife and son to show us his pepper fields. I have never seen someone so excited about growing things. While the other farmers approached the field professionally, scientifically, or otherwise, this man’s relationship with the soil was simply a joyous one. We ended up in his home, where we were fed sweet watermelon and cold drinks. It was already 9:45, and we were beat. It was just the pick-me-up we needed to make it home. They were lovely. To top it all off, he tapped my shoulder and told me in Hebrew to open the trunk. He proceeded to dump 4 overstuffed bags of beautiful peppers in the car.

And this is how we get to where we started. We drove back to Tel Aviv, and I took the bus back to Jerusalem. This was around 2 and a half weeks ago. I’m still eating the peppers.

Look out for my next post-I’ll be talking about full-time Torah study and the annual Jerusalem Hug.