12

 

Once, every kibbutz had an old-timer who cultivated a cactus garden, and anyone who happened to be passing by was taken forcibly by the hand to this cactus garden to see cacti and hear stories about cacti and was even expected to enthuse over the grafting of cacti into all sorts of prickly monster shapes.

Regrettably, I am not that interested in cacti, but I do have one of my own, a cactus I am very fond of—a large sabra prickly pear that rises up at the rear of the garden. I did not plant it, nor do I look after it. From time to time I cut and remove creepers attempting to climb up its trunk to reach sun and light. Aside from that, I don’t need to bother with it at all. It’s a large, ancient creature, strong and independent, that survives in all conditions and overcomes all hardships. It does not need watering, either, since it hoards water in its succulent stems, and one is best advised not to touch it at all. It is possible, of course, but this is literally at the risk of those who choose to be in touch.

I do not know who planted this sabra. Perhaps the Arab tenants who lived in the area before it was purchased from its owner—a rich Arab who lived in Beirut—by Germans who established a village on it? Perhaps the Germans themselves, who decided to assimilate into the area? Or someone from the Israeli collective moshav that was established here after World War II, when the British expelled the Germans back over the seas? The sabra does not answer any of these questions but simply stands there, and every summer it blossoms and produces fruit that is good enough for me to eat.

Anyone hiking in Israel knows there are many sabra bushes like these, all looking as though they were sown by God in the middle of nowhere. Almost always, this nowhere was once an Arab village, but ironically the word “sabra” is a Zionist nickname for Jewish children who were born and raised here even before the establishment of the State of Israel, as is written in Eliezar Ben Yehuda’s capacious dictionary: “A nickname for children raised in the Land of Israel who did not learn European manners.” This can be understood in a positive light—a Hebrew child free of Diasporic complexes. And also in a negative light—an insolent and impolite Hebrew child.

There are varying claims as to the ownership of this innovative term, and I won’t go into detail here. I will only say that it is customary to give the rather schmaltzy explanation that Israeli children are like the fruit of the sabra: prickly on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside. But the real reason, so I believe, goes a little deeper than this, namely that these bushes seemed to embody the essence of locality to new Jewish immigrants.

And indeed the poet Shaul Tchernichovsky in “Oh My Land, My Homeland” included the sabra among other quintessential local elements: goat herds, camel caravans (gamelet, to use his terminology), the scent of spring orchards, rocky ground, sycamores, and “a fence of wicked sabra”—something that brings to mind the possibility that the poet personally suffered a painful experience connected to this wickedness.

The Hebrew name sabra was derived from the Arabic sabaar, which was also granted the Yiddish declension of sabrey, or sabreys in the plural. But the shrub itself is neither Arab nor Jew, neither a Zionist nor an anti-Zionist, and the truth is it is not even indigenous. In spite of its successful branding, the sabra itself is not a sabra, born in Israel, but an immigrant. It is native Mexican, brought to Europe by the Spanish at the beginning of the sixteenth century. And because it acclimatized easily, and its fruit is so tasty, and its trunk can become an impassable obstacle, and also because it’s a hardy plant that makes do with the bare minimum—it was joyfully adopted throughout the Mediterranean Basin, including Israel. While traveling, I have come across it in Sicily and Spain and Sardinia and France and Greece and Italy. I greet it each time the way one greets a relative or an acquaintance, and for a moment I feel at home.

On this note, by the way, the sabra is reminiscent of the eucalyptus—also a foreign plant that came from faraway Australia, acclimatizing here until it eventually turned into one of the scenic and political symbols of Israel. The eucalyptus can be seen in many areas of the Mediterranean, and wherever it grows, it provides shade, building rafters, and fuel for heating. It aids land conservation and the production of various medications and is used as a source of nectar and pollen for honeybees. In Israel, furthermore, the eucalyptus attained special status and was part of the Zionist enterprise and narrative, until the Arabs turned their attention toward it, nicknaming it “the Jew tree”—shajarat el-yehud.

Moreover, in a public opinion poll conducted by the Ministry of Agriculture, it was discovered that out of all the trees it is, in fact, the Australian immigrant that has gained the title of “the most Israeli tree of all.” This is because the eucalyptus has been part of the Jewish settlement through all its variations and generations and has come to be identified with it. Like the sabra, the eucalyptus also benefited from a public relations campaign, from branding and image building: For years we were taught that the eucalyptus fought malaria alongside the pioneers, draining the swamps with them, dancing the hora with them, and spending time with female pioneers in the granary. In short, its image as a Zionist tree intensified and took root, like the tree itself. It accompanied many of us through our private lives, too—in the collective agricultural movement, in old established villages and kibbutzim, on hikes, in army camps, and along the numerous roads of Israel, thanks to its prominent presence within the landscape.

The sabra similarly accompanied those who were raised here—perhaps not many of today’s children, but the fifty-plus group, without a doubt. In my Jerusalem childhood, I picked sabras in Lifta, Sheikh Badr, and on the western extension of Mount Herzl, also a former Arab village that has meanwhile been taken over by Yad Vashem. In my Nahalal childhood, I picked sabras at Ein Bedah, close to the Ramat David Air Base. The truth is I should have written “we picked,” the plural, because we were always together, a barefoot troop of children, venturing out to pick sabras, like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.

How does one pick them? Well, back then we would arm ourselves with a long stick to which an empty tin can was nailed at one end, wobbling like the milk tooth of a six-year-old. We chose fruit that was golden green—the ruddier colors are overripe—stretched the stick toward the fruit, inserted the tin can over it, tilted it, pulled, and if the can did not break loose and the fruit didn’t fall, it was ours, complete with the minuscule, loathsome spines that quickly detach from the fruit and stick in your skin.

Today, a tin instrument made for this purpose can be purchased in any hardware store in the Arab villages of northern Israel. One side fits small sabras, and the other side fits large ones, and it also has a short tin sleeve that fits snugly and securely to the end of the stick, making it a very efficient and handy instrument. And there is another method, suitable for fruit within arm’s reach: put a sturdy work glove on your hand, the cheapest and simplest type, grasp the fruit, and pick it. While picking sabras with a stick or a glove, or any other method of picking, it is recommended to wear a long-sleeved shirt and to consider the direction in which the wind is blowing, because the spines break away and fly off, and to realize that all this will be in vain, that sabras are procured through suffering, although beyond their spines awaits the sweetness of the fruit.

You pick, you get pricked, you roll the harvested sabras on the ground, you get pricked some more, you strike them lightly with pine branches—the devout, so I’ve heard, do this with branches of sticky yellowheads—you get pricked again, drop them in a pail, go home, and try to remember not to wipe the sweat from your face, because that will become covered with spines, too. At home, wash the fruit under running water and then peel: with a sharp knife remove both ends of the fruit, make a cut from its North to South Pole, grasp either edge of the incision, get pricked again, and pull apart. If the incision is not sufficiently deep, the skin will tear and remain on the fruit. If it is too deep—the fruit will disintegrate. If it is sliced correctly, the fruit will peel with the ease of a man removing his coat. Taste, enjoy, and then discover that from this moment your tongue is also full of spines, and furthermore your inner cheek and palate, but the taste makes up for the suffering.

Now is the time for all sorts of people to arrive, asking for a taste. You might grumble: “Pick them yourself,” but it is nicer to feed whoever is hungry, even if they are parasites who did not work hard, who did not pick or clean or get pricked. In any case, the sabras must be chilled before eating. Place them in the refrigerator and meanwhile ask a close friend, preferably the Dulcinea for whom you went out to pick sabras in the first place, to equip herself with a pair of tweezers in order to nitpick the spines from your skin.

And so, while the peeled sabras are cooling, stretch out on the cold floor and cool yourself as well, and while your beloved is attending to your wounds, rest on your laurels. Close your eyes and feel your forgotten manhood reawakening: here you are, the manliest among men, out hunting the most dangerous creatures in nature. Solo, with only a stick in hand, facing a gang of bandits armed with ten thousand minuscule burning spears and thousands of invisible daggers. Neither afraid nor withdrawing, stabbed yet vanquishing, picking and peeling, returning from the battle carrying an offering to the beloved—like David to Michal with two hundred foreskins in his basket.

Dear men, hear my voice; suitors and lovers, give ear to the words of my mouth: pick sabras for your loved ones, as I did for mine. The sabra is a vegetarian dish, organic, valiant, and manly, yet not crude or violent, nor chauvinistic. Pick sabras, peel them, place them in the refrigerator, and in the heat of the day welcome your loved ones with this oh-so-sweet chilled delight. Enough of “I squeezed you a glass of wheatgrass, my dove.” From henceforth say: “I picked you a sabra. Do you want it?”

And you, dear lady reader, even if that very day you went to the supermarket and bought a cellophane-wrapped tray of sterile, tasteless, and odorless sabras, polite ones devoid of spines from the outset, wrap your arms around your Ulysses and draw him toward you—just as at the end of the book of the same name—drawn to your perfume and your breasts, and his heart will beat like mad, and you will say: “You picked sabras for me? Yes, I want them…yes I will Yes.”