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The sun was shining in its wintry-warm fashion. It was just the day for a trip to Magalim, Magalim that lies between Netivot and Kibbutz Saad. A place like any other place in the Negev? Perhaps But not to me. Shiri is there! Just eighteen. Serving her country. It sounds big It sounds important. And it is. Perhaps bigger and more important than her Bechinot Bagrut For her, the dreary end Of a long series of dreary years Her narrow world made up of Walking the same streets daily Meeting the same people daily, The same challenges The same pattern of life Changes so gradual That by her hardly noticed at all. A new chapter had begun With what words to start it? How shall she dress? Pleated skirt would be too childish. High heels would be too silly, false. How should she address her class? What should her first words be? Simply "Shalom" seemed not enough, A speech of welcome too formal. What about discipline? Subject matter that's she's not too sure of? Who are the people she will be working with? Will they help her? Will they like her? Will she like them? And I had a few questions of my own. Eighteen and on her own What if she falls in love with the "wrong boy"? We pounced on her that first Shabbat that she came "How was it?" we asked Meaning a million things Feeling we were too uxorious parents Too citified Too secure Too doting Too protective. "That's hardly a description," We answered, nettled. How does your day go? How did you start? "I get up in the morning Like I do at home I get dressed, daven, eat breakfast Like I do at home." Patiently and slowly, too slowly Surely she knew that wasn't what we wanted to hear. "What's your room like?" "Where do you sleep? "A room like any room On a bed like any bed. She was exasperating. "Is your roommate nice? "Alright -- she doesn't snore." "And the children in your classes?" "What can I know in one week? They're children like any children." "Any discipline problems? "I haven't sent anyone to the principal yet." "What kind of a person is he?" "So far, I've hardly seen him." "Strange, doesn't he want to see how you're doing?" She shrugged. It was no use. But why? Why so unresponsive? Why so uncommunicative?-- almost to the point of rudeness -- Not like her Not like her at all Not like her a week ago, Fire and fury for the idea Eager and anxious for the experience Nervous a bit by the prospect Thrilled at the idea of earning some money Excited and uncertain about the whole adventure. Why now - so unsharing? That Sunday morning After I had said, "Goodbye" to her A stranger in one week. I washed the dishes I made the beds My mind was off with her Not that she was in any danger Like being at the battle front Not that I suspected any imminent harm But why were we so out of step? Still In a way What could she tell me? The walls are yellow The floors are stone The room is three by four A room like any room A bed like any bed. I would go to Magalim. Magalim is tucked away In the bright sunlight Of the Northern Negev, The school center of four Yishuvim around People from Tunis, Morocco, Algeria Send their children here, The raw material of the nation of Israel. "Teacher Shiri's mother is here!" The news spread like wildfire! The children looked at me From distant points of curiosity "Are you really teacher Shiri's mother?" One finally dared to ask. "Yes." I answered, "I am Shiri's mother, Even teachers sometimes have mothers" I added indulgently. The child paused, puzzled Teacher Shiri's other world Had never occurred to her. And then she ran off To tell the others. "She is so teacher Shiri's mother She told me so, herself," Shiri here is an important personality Shiri here has position Shiri here is not just somebody's little girl. It was Shiri's roommate Who first paid me any adult attention. "You must be Shiri's mother." She took me under her wing And I went gladly. "Come into my classroom." she invited "I am the domestic science teacher We've just finished making rice." "It looks nice. How does it taste?" "Taste mine!" "Taste mine!" "Taste mine!" From all corners of the room, "How did you make it?" I asked the girls Stalling a bit Aghast at the idea of tasting Fifteen different plates of rice And so early in the day. They told me in great detail. "Is that the way you make it at home?" I asked. "No," they said, "We don't put any oil in it! "It's perfectly good With no oil in it. Why do I need to add oil To perfectly good rice without it?" Why? indeed? I guess that Shiri was right She lives in a room Like any other room She davens, eats breakfast, goes to school. How could she explain to me That they don't put oil in their rice? Her days like any other days The children like any other children. The soul of Magalim is in the living Magalim. |
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