 15 Apr 2005 @ 19:30, by Judih Haggai
It was my turn to stand guard for four hours last night at the Kibbutz Gate. It's a heavy, electronically operated closure and is part of our security system.
Well, it was my turn. My turn to show up at 6 p.m., bringing along some lemon grass freshly harvested from the herbal garden growing in a barrel in front of our treasurer's office.
It was my turn to turn on the TV, situate myself in a position where I could check out who was coming into the kibbutz and who was leaving. My job was to check out each car, truck or jeep and let them in once I got the impression they were safe.
Well Monterey Pop Festival was on last night, and there I was with Cass Elliot and the rest of the Mamas and the Papas, Grace Slick and Paul Kantner and there I was clock-watching and surveying the traffic, light but consistent.
And as Janis Joplin sang and ultimately Ravi Shankar played for a 20 minute finale I wondered about how life moves us around in strange maneuvres.
If anyone really wanted to enter our kibbutz - whether thief, hooligan or terrorist, what was I going to do about it? Of course I sat there without a weapon, and though the first two hours of my watch were graced with the light of day, after dark, how was I to really identify drivers. What was to prevent a serious infiltrator from seriously infiltrating?
We're lucky in this area. The army patrols and when G and I used to take our nightly walks outside of the kibbutz to watch for falling stars, army jeeps would stop us to check us out every half an hour or so. They're seriously guarding us from infiltration.
So, why was I watching Jimi Hendrix doing the Wild Thing with his guitar from the confines of a tiny shack with iron bars on its windows and a dim view of the periphery.
Before this country started up, G's mother used to have to climb a 30 meter tower to guard. She had to send out morse code messages. Everyone not only knew Morse Code, but also used it. I learned Morse while in school, but use it? Never.
Here, they did. Here, guarding was essential. And here I was last night, going through the motions with flower children and Scott MacKenzie singing about San Francisco, pretending to serve a purpose.
My button finger got a workout as I opened the gate, and my service to my kibbutz got a karma boost, but luckily for me, it was no more than that. One day it could be. As Don Juan advised, I hope to be somewhere else if that happens.
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