Since October 7, 2023, there has been a nationwide shortage of agricultural workers in Israel. Fields and greenhouses lie fallow. Yet it is harvest time – there is an abundance of clementines, oranges, lemons, strawberries, cauliflower, and other fruits and vegetables. Farmers are pinning their hopes on the many volunteers from around the world who are coming to help Israel during this difficult time. Our editor-in-chief, Dana Nowak, is also in Israel to support various aid projects. Here, she reports on her experience as a harvest worker.
Before setting off for southern Israel in my rental car, I reread the Israeli Homeland Security's safety instructions for rocket alerts: "Pull over to the side of the road, exit the vehicle, and go to a shelter or the stairwell of a nearby building. If you cannot reach a shelter within the allotted time, exit your vehicle, move away from it, lie down on the ground, and protect your head with your hands."
For months, there have been almost daily rocket alerts. In the north, Israel is being shelled by the Shiite Hezbollah militia from Lebanon, and in the south by Hamas from the Gaza Strip. After three months of war, the terrorist organization that governs there apparently still possesses a considerable arsenal of rockets.
The closer I get to the border with the Gaza Strip, the worse the roads become. The tanks and heavy military vehicles that have been driving here in recent weeks have left deep ruts in the asphalt.
After a nearly two-hour drive from Jerusalem, I arrive punctually at 8:30 a.m. at the agreed meeting point in Talmei Yosef. The moshav, on the edge of the Negev Desert, is located about eight kilometers from the Egyptian border and just over seven kilometers from the Gaza border – and thus within range of Palestinian Qassam rockets. Since October 7, 2023, the small village has been almost deserted; many of the 90 families were evacuated. A few farmers have remained, their livelihoods hanging in the balance.
"It's good to hear that we have such friends."
“Where are you going?” the reservists guarding the entrance to the moshav ask me. “I’m meeting Uri, who coordinates the volunteer work in agriculture,” I reply. “You can wait here with us. Would you like some coffee? Where are you from?” When the three guards hear that I’m from Germany and here to support Israel during this difficult time, they are touched. “Are you Jewish?” they ask, and are amazed when I explain that I’m Christian and work for an organization that stands with Israel and supports many projects in the country. “Wow, thank you so much! Thank you for doing this; it’s good to hear that we have friends like you. Take care!” Then Uri arrives, and we drive a few hundred meters further to a large greenhouse where we wait for the other volunteers.
“The bus will be here in a minute,” Uri says after calling the bus driver. I ask him how he's doing since October 7th. “I'm okay. But 20 of my friends are dead. They slaughtered them in their homes,” Uri tells me, lighting his umpteenth cigarette. The current situation is clearly affecting him. Ten minutes later, he calls the bus driver again. “They'll be here in a minute.” This time it's true. Shortly afterward, a bus arrives, and about eight volunteers get off. They come from Sweden, the USA, and Israel. Most of the men and women are Jewish and have come to Israel specifically to help.
"Without volunteers like you, we would be lost."
Then farmer Yuval greets us. He no longer has any workers on his farm. The migrant workers from the Philippines and Thailand have left the country. Palestinians from the Gaza Strip are no longer eligible to work there after October 7th. "Thank you for being here – without volunteers like you, we'd be lost," he says, and explains what needs to be done. The dead tomato plants have to be pulled out by the roots so the greenhouses can be replanted. Since no one has worked here for months, the weeds are several feet high. So we fight our way through this jungle, pulling the withered plants out of the bone-dry soil. The work is sweaty and exhausting. After Yuval turns on the drip irrigation, it gets a little easier.
We manage to harvest half the greenhouse, then the work becomes too strenuous for some in the group; it's already starting to hurt their backs. So, after three hours, we change locations and drive to the clementine harvest in Moschav Yesha, just a few kilometers away. Other volunteers will take over our work.
I'm happy about the change – I had hoped to help with the fruit harvest. But there's a shortage of workers everywhere in agriculture, and helpers usually only find out where they'll be working when they arrive. Anyone who really wants to help farmers shouldn't be too picky.
Clementine harvest on the edge of the war zone
In the vast clementine grove, a young woman named Yael greets us. A large group of volunteers are already hard at work harvesting. Each of us newcomers receives a small pair of garden shears and a shoulder bag. "You have to snip the stem off very close to the fruit so that no other fruit gets damaged during transport," Yael explains. Then we get to work. The trees are laden with ripe fruit, and I empty one bag after another into the huge collection crate. Every now and then, I stop for refreshments at the small stand set up to provide for the volunteers. They offer coffee, tea, water, cookies, and, of course, clementines. A box contains earplugs. We hear the thunderous roar of bombs exploding from the Gaza Strip at irregular intervals. "Don't worry, those are ours," Yael assures us.
Elad, the farm owner, stops by. He thanks everyone, deeply moved, for their help. "Without you volunteers, our harvest would be lost. I have almost no workers left, but hundreds of trees laden with ripe fruit. We grow seven different varieties of clementines here," he explains. Work has ground to a halt in his more than 100 greenhouses; much has already been lost, Elad says. His family is going through difficult times—like so many people in Israel. On October 7, terrorists murdered his parents-in-law. His sister, Shiri Bibas, along with her husband and two young children, is still in the hands of Hamas in the Gaza Strip. There has been no sign of them.
Shortly after 3 p.m., Yael calls the volunteers together. The bus is ready for the return trip. I stand with Jews from Great Britain and Sweden in front of the last tree that still needs harvesting. We didn't want to leave until we'd finished our assigned row. But the bus driver is pressing us, and so, with heavy hearts, we have to stop working. "Thank you for coming to Israel during this time. Thank you for standing by our side. Take care," Salomon from Sweden says to me as he boards the bus. I get into my car. I want to follow the bus; otherwise, I might get lost in the vast grove of 300,000 square meters. Suddenly, Salomon returns. He gives me a pin in the shape of a small yellow ribbon—the symbol of solidarity and support. Currently, it's being worn in Israel in honor of the hostages taken by Hamas. I set off on the more than 140-kilometer drive home to Jerusalem. It was a tiring day, but worth every effort, and I would have liked to stay longer. As I arrived at my apartment, the "Zeva Adom" warning app finally alerted me on my phone: rockets heading towards Mefalsim, southern Israel.
