A Story of Mourning and Meaning on a Kibbutz

After Felix is murdered by an Arab terrorist in Israel, his family deals with this overwhelming darkness amidst the dazzling beauty and light of a kibbutz — and the hope that a rabbi offers them.

A synagogue on a kibbutz in Israel

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This is an excerpt from the novel “Shalva” written by Sylvie Schapira.

You can also listen to the podcast version of this essay on Apple Podcasts, YouTube Music, YouTube, and Spotify.

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Kibbutz¹ Tikva Nitzchit (Hebrew for “Eternal Hope”) was high up in the Golan Heights, where the air was pure, surrounded by high, gently contoured hills, shaped by the hand of God.

In the distance, bordering Syria and Lebanon was majestic Mount Hermon, spectacular with its cap of snow. The very place where God had promised Abraham to give the Land to his descendants. And where Felix, their son, had announced he would be living.

Clive couldn’t help recalling the details that Felix had told them on the phone, breathless with wonder; how he was elated with the kibbutz even after a few brief weeks of being there. How they had warmly welcomed him. He told them excitedly that Mount Hermon dominated the horizon. That it rose to 2,814 metres. How the Jordan river started its life-giving flow from Hermon’s foot.

He spoke with his younger brother, Raef about the Covenant with God through Abraham. Clive heard the details again and again, flickering in his head with his son’s voice. Like a radio tuning in and out. Like a candle flame dying. And as he looked around him, he shook his head with disbelief that they should be standing in a place of overwhelming beauty that had become an icon of a living nightmare for them.

Around the kibbutz, the grass was thick, with carefully tended plants that were well irrigated. It was home to 500 members, each with their own bungalow and a strip of garden where wild myrtle, red bitter aloe and the pointed leaves of bright yellow sternbergia grew abundantly; shamefully glorious, pollinated by small clouds of hoverflies and bees.

They hovered, oblivious to the air of grieving in their midst. In the fields purple, pink and white cyclamen and mountain narcissus splashed the green with their colours. Mahla's eyes closed against the audacious beauty of her son's choice. It was a place where she should have spun her own magic in with tales and pictures.

The children’s house and kindergarten was at the center of the kibbutz. The beating heart of the community. On one side of the main building were the dining hall, reception hall and administration offices. There was a shop that provided clothing for the kibbutzniks².

No money was exchanged for the items, and food could also be taken from the stores for those who chose to cook in their own homes. Labour was the currency used, and a work rota was determined by members as part of their monthly duties. The principles of the kibbutz were adherence to a code of observance, educational excellence for their children, and a deep love of the Land.

Economic pressures were causing many kibbutzes to close or to change, Tikva Nitzchit was also in the throes of changing from growing grain whilst they were looking at many alternatives. But since the rise in Arab terrorism, their plans for the future had to be suspended: the homicide bombing of the bus to Tzfat³ was another in a long line of murders of Israeli civilians.

Many of the men and women working in the fields now carried a rifle over their shoulders, and an electronic surveillance system had been installed. Those were not the changes they had envisaged for their kibbutz, but they were resigned to accepting.

A subdued atmosphere hung all around them; those who came to eat spoke in low voices. A few of them came up and spoke to the family briefly, shaking their hands. Mostly they left them alone, respecting their need for privacy.

Raef, and Clive went to the small synagogue in the evening and joined in the prayers. For Raef, it was a poignant and important moment: A time that unexpectedly lifted his heart out of the depths of mourning, to a moment where he felt closer to God and Felix.

The synagogue was a low building, constructed in the shape of a desert tent, placed at the far end of the kibbutz. Paths from the synagogue led out to all the other buildings like rays from the sun. Built lovingly by the kibbutz members of wood, glass and stone; there were panels of tinted glass on the roof and walls and two coloured, stained glass panels on the walls either side of the bimah; abstract patterns of rich blues, yellow, red and green that cast splashes of liquid colour across the stone floor, over the readers of the Torah, and flowed around the rhythmic movement of the men’s prayer shawls.

Raef felt his heart soar and his prayers reaching up to heaven. He prayed long and hard for his brother, knowing at that moment that God wanted him to live in that place where his brother would have lived. He knew without any doubt that he would be closest to God, to Felix and to the Land that God had given them. Felix would have wanted it as well, he was sure.

As the sun was sinking it laid a golden glow on Mount Hermon’s head, like the touch of God's hand. Night would come quickly whilst shadows grew longer and cooler. A soft breeze blew through the trees full of mysterious whispers. Like the prayers that would follow.

Clive was glad to be able to lose himself in the familiar chants even though he found the words hard to say, they were so familiar as to have little meaning, yet he knew that he took some comfort from their sounds, intonations and repetition. It was all the same, he told himself, no matter where a Jew prayed. Knowing the order of the service gave him a sense of belonging. His youngest son and the men in their prayer shawls swaying to the chanting of the prayers stirring their souls, touched him deeply.

He heard Felix’s voice again in his head, telling the family how the men praying with the tassels on the corners of their prayer shawls, were like the palm trees with their strong fronds swaying in the wind; solid, coming out of the desert, standing apart from those early pagans around them who had sacrificed their children and prayed to clay gods.

Their ancestors, he liked to say, had the courage to separate themselves with their belief in the one God. That belief and the familiar ritual of prayers that had been passed down through thousands of years to each generation, had held them together.

To experience his son’s exact words amidst the prayers brought Clive to another level of understanding. When the men sang Oseh Shalom, their deep voices blended in a swelling harmony, and their souls reached up beyond the glass roof to God. Clive spoke to Felix from his heart, feeling his words carried within the prayers around him.

Early next morning, Uri met them in the dining room. He sat with them whilst they tried to eat, but nobody could. They saw large bowls of salads, varieties of fish, cheeses and fruit; baskets of fresh home baked bagels and rolls. The hungry kibbutzniks coming in from their toil helped themselves to the food eagerly, but the mourners were unable to eat.

A little before 9 o’clock a taxi pulled up. Uri stood up, ‘ah, that’s Rabbi Yishon. We should go now.’ Those words were like a sentence to a condemned man. Each one of them felt the impossibility of denying it any longer. Uri led the Rabbi and the mourners to a quiet room at the back of the main building. Another kibbutznik came and with scissors, cut and then ripped the shirts of Clive, and Raef. Kriah. A sign of their deep sorrow and anger.

The Rabbi was a short man. His jacket too tight as it stretched over his rounded belly, which heaved with his long sighs. When they were all seated Rabbi Yishon stroked his thick, grey beard. After several minutes he leaned forward and almost placed a surprisingly slim hand over Mahla’s. His hand hovered just over hers, without touching her.

The effect on her was instantaneous; the twisting of her wedding ring immediately ceased. Nobody would have expected a Rabbi to touch a woman’s hand. It was like an electric shock in the room: a gesture that had an immediate effect of anticipation and disbelief. In puzzlement she looked up and stared deeply into his soft, brown eyes. His eyes searched her face and something was communicated between them.

She couldn’t have named it, but the numbness she had felt for weeks seemed to ease a little. She took in a deep breath and let it out as if he had lifted a burden from her shoulders.

The Rabbi left his hand still hovering over hers, like a gentle white dove. His short fingers gently tapped some invisible rhythm in the air as he began to speak. Struggling with English, in a thick accent, he moved his other hand in the air as if to help him to search for the right words.

Mahla heard his words with the clarity of someone who has been woken from a long sleep. The Rabbi knew too well about the death of a young person, it was a far too common experience in Israel through wars and Arab terrorism. He spoke of “the sorrow of a young life cut short,” of his beginning that held all our hopes that the future, the world we have created, would be better.

To our sorrow, it was not. We long to return to the Garden of Eden where there is no more war, no disease, horror or suffering,’ he told them, 'but when one of our children dies, or is destroyed, our hopes for a bright future feel destroyed too.’

With one hand held out towards them, he proffered something that would come back to her with a new perspective:

“You must speak of your son who has gone to his eternal rest beneath the shelter of His wings. His body was shattered but his soul is whole and pure. For this reason you must speak often of him. When you speak of him the bright flame that was his being will shine a radiant light onto the dark world that slaughtered him. The souls of those who are extinguished by hate teach us how to hope and how to live again. That is what they leave us with. But we must speak of them if we are to hear their message.”

Mahla knew that his words went straight to her heart and spoke to her. They were like water to a person dying of thirst. But when he spoke about the significance of the Jewish period of mourning and that God requires us to live no matter how unbearable it is, the rawness filled her up again. It slammed shut the doors that she had opened to his words that “Felix’s soul was whole and pure.”

She retreated once more into the numb place she had made for a refuge. She couldn’t bear that God had allowed her son to have been slaughtered, whilst commanding her to live. Anger rose up from the pit of her stomach, as she wanted to shout at the Rabbi: “How dare you tell me that God wants me to live! What about my son? Why didn’t He want Felix to live? What kind of God is this? Did he want my son for a sacrifice? Is that it?”

But she made no sound that would break the dignity of her son’s memorial. She clenched her fists and bit the words back into her throat.

They stood: The men who would recite the prayers standing on one side, and the women on the other, as is the custom. The Rabbi intoned prayers and the mourner’s prayer for Felix’s soul, El Malei Rachamim. The Kaddish⁴ was led by Clive and Raef. It was the significant prayer that still praises God despite the mourners’ loss. They struggled to control their tears as they recited the Kaddish. As one faltered with sobs, the other raised his voice so the prayer would not falter.

After the service, the group went outside into the bright sunlight. The Rabbi invited them to walk with him. He led them along a tree lined path, the shade from the foliage intertwined overhead made a leafy, green tunnel. Thickets of rare, wild scented myrtle grew close by.

At the end of the shady arbour they saw a circular, low, white domed building, built like all the buildings on the kibbutz by the members. This building had no doors and no glass in the window openings. Purposely left open. The building was called Habayit Shalom. The House of Peace.

They entered and saw that it was roughly hewn in stone and unpainted. It was plastered but otherwise unadorned. Cool winds blew through the openings and were not unpleasant. There were dusty mats and some large cushions on the bare ground. The interior was enough for twenty or so people to stand or sit and still have their own space.

The Rabbi gestured for them to sit and look out of the openings that were on all sides, to listen and to reflect for a while. Some of the women sat amongst the cushions. The others stood alone or close to each other.

On one side they could see Mount Hermon with his white, snowy head in the blue sky, framed by a window, looking as if it would stand forever. In whichever direction they looked, they saw fields of Spring wildflowers; deep blue irises, orchids, pink and white cyclamens called Solomon's Fire, crimson anemones and bright red poppies. Spatters of gold flowers seemed dazzled by the sun.

And here and there were clumps of tall, azure blue lupins. A riot of colour mocking them with their myriad eruption of joy. There were many fruit trees on the other side; clouds of billowing pink cherry blossoms stunned them with their improbable beauty. It was as if they had stumbled into an Edo period Japanese painting. Or heaven.

They listened to the wind singing a baleful song as it freely flew in and out through windows and doorways. A bird offered up its sweet counter song nearby. There was no other sound. The peace calmed them, and they all felt as if Felix was there, standing there with them. Despite a chill in the air, there was warmth from the sun which gently touched the faces of those who stood close to the windows.

After a while, the Rabbi spoke in a low voice: “In kibbutz Tikva Nitzchit, something of Felix would stay forever, as he had intended.” And Mahla’s anger began to recede a little again as she heard his words. She felt again the burden of sorrow lifting, as her eyes met his.

They stayed inside the Beit Shalom for a moment longer, like strangers still lost in a fog, uncertain what to say or do. At the Rabbi’s invitation they all went back to the kibbutz dining hall. But he asked Clive and Mahla to stay back a little longer.

A young woman who had not been with them for the prayers came into the house and spoke softly to the Rabbi. He nodded and with his hand he indicated Mahla and Clive. She was hardly more than a girl, in her early twenties, slender with a mass of light brown, undulating hair falling to her shoulders. Her eyes were green, her features a little too sharp to be beautiful; but she was unmistakingly graceful, wearing a skirt that flowed lightly around her ankles as she moved.

Mahla nodded hesitantly, taking the girl’s delicate outstretched hand. She realised that this was the friend Felix would have visited in the ancient town of Tzfat. The town of the Kabbalah, where artists and mysticism lived side by side. She searched the young woman’s face as if to unlock some secret of her son’s heart. The young woman looked at them for a few seconds and spoke:

“I am Tali. When Felix and I met in Tzfat we spent some time together speaking about poetry, art, literature and philosophy. I am studying Yehuda Halevi’s work for my degree, and I was amazed that this young Englishman had not only read The Kuzari — the greatest work from the greatest of all medieval Hebrew poets — but he could discuss it rationally and intelligently.”

She spoke urgently and seriously, trying to convey to the grief-stricken parents how rare their son’s breadth of understanding was for his age. And his English education. Mahla nodded to show she had understood. Tali continued: “He wrote some of his thoughts down. Perhaps you would like to have this?”

She held out a piece of paper that was written in her son’s hand-writing. Mahla breathed hard as she looked at the familiar writing on the paper in Tali’s hand. She took it and pressed it to her heart: then she embraced the girl. The young woman tried to smile at Mahla, but her mouth trembled:

“I don’t have the words to tell you what I feel about his death. I want you to know that we only knew each other for a few weeks, but I was already enchanted by his mind. He also taught me some Shakespeare poetry. This is what he wrote. I am sorry to tell you that it was like a terrible prophecy.”

She unfolded the paper and read it out to Mahla and Clive, with some hesitancy at the language:

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie

As the death-bed whereon it must expire

Consumed with that which it was nourisht by

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Mahla and Clive blinked hard, struggling with their emotions and their tears. Tali stayed that day until nightfall. She and Mahla walked together for a few hours so that things could be spoken and exchanged about Felix. It was just enough for Mahla to learn that this was a young woman who had meaning for her son. She was, as far as Mahla knew, the first young woman who had.

Three days after the memorial they all returned to England. Felix’s best friend, Cal was not with them. He had changed his mind and decided to stay in the kibbutz after all. As if he was doing it for Felix.

They all began to speak about Felix, as the Rabbi had urged them to do. He had given them permission to break the terrible silence that had closed up their words behind walls of pain. It felt, they each remarked, a relief to have marked his death in some way.

Even Raef opened up a little more than he usually did. Telling the family “the mourner’s prayer is a ritual that can only be truly experienced by those in deep mourning. Its significance lies in an ancient human need to dignify death and reflect on the meaning of the dead person. A soul that could never be forgotten.”

They agreed that they would hold a memorial service at the end of the first year of their mourning. And when Clive suggested it should be in the copse, that Felix loved so much, they all nodded their assent.

The return to Shalva was mixed with the presence of his absence defying them. For too many painful evenings the family had sat at the table staring accusingly at the brooding English skies darkening the nights. Their new way to be together; to speak of Felix, and to find some route back to their family was still a hard path. There were many times of awkwardness, retreating into silences. Occasionally more attempts that were sometimes responded to, and sometimes not. Clive told them it was to be expected, but comfort was still in short measure.

Somehow the village learned of the news of Felix’s death. In small villages gossip is carried like seeds in the wind. The villagers suddenly took the family as one of their own. When any of the family was seen in the shop or street, people who had never spoken to them before offered their condolences.

As was the English way, tongues that had wagged judgmentally about the Jewish family in the early days, now clucked sadly at the news of Felix’s death. A few spoke about the “evil of the terrorists” in a bid to assure the Levins that they supported them. One woman on a horse rode up to Shalva to tell them herself how she felt.

Clive was surprised to see a stranger peering through one of the windows, and a large horse cropping the grass. “Excuse me,” he said as gently as he could so as not to startle her, “are you looking for someone?”

The woman recovered her surprise and attempted a smile: “I heard that you are the bereaved family, and I thought you may need something?” She began to speak about the conflict and what she thought of the Palestinians, but Clive interrupted her.

He asked her patiently, if she would give them the privacy they desperately needed. The woman apologized repeatedly and left hurriedly, her large buttocks pumping the saddle, her hair and the horse’s tail flying out in unison as they galloped back down the long driveway.

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1. Hebrew for an Israeli collective settlement, usually agricultural and often also industrial, in which all wealth is held in common

2. Someone who lives on a kibbutz

3. A city in the Northern District of Israel and one of the Four Holy Cities of Judaism

4. An ancient Jewish prayer sequence