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Rachel Saperstein is a teacher at the Neve Dekalim ulpana and a spokeswoman for the Katif Regional Council.
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By Rachel Saperstein
August 30, 2007
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"I'm from Gush Katif," I say.
"There is no Gush Katif. Where do you live now, Rachel?"
"I live in the refugee camp of Nitzan. I'm still from Gush Katif."
Two years ago I lived in the pretty township of Neve Dekalim in Gush Katif. Today I live in a neighborhood called Neve Dekalim in the refugee camp called Nitzan. Nitzan lies between the coastal cities of Ashdod and Ashkelon on the Mediterranean south of Tel Aviv.
Four hundred fifty families live in Nitzan two hundred in Neve Dekalim. Other neighborhoods are named for other Gush Katif communities. The old signs from Gush Katif stand in front of each neighborhood as residents cling to every remnant from the past. At the southernmost point of Nitzan are the neighborhoods of secular residents, with a separate access road so they can enter and leave on Shabbat.
Each area's street names are connected to nature. Ours are named for trees. We feel especially fortunate that our street name is Tamar, or date palm, as that is also the name of our elder daughter. Nearby are streets named for descriptions of the sea, and just beyond, for birds and streams.
There are at least six synagogues in Nitzan, with furniture and wall hangings rescued from Gush Katif. One mikve serves the community.
A small community center, a park and a full-size basketball court are in a public area. The Orange Gallery and B'nei Menashe Motif structures stand on their own site quite near our home.
Yellow 'moshiach' flags flutter in every direction as the Chabad representative, Rabbi Kirshenzaft, has his home, office and library nearby.
A playground that had stood near my home in Neve Dekalim has been reassembled here in Nitzan. Though poorly maintained with trash swirling about, at least our children can use it. Our government had wanted to offer it as a gift to the Gazans after our expulsion, but the American Jew who was the benefactor for the park was infuriated. He even paid thousands of dollars extra to have it dismantled and reassembled here.
Ship containers, repository of our belongings that couldn't fit into the 'caravillas', are everywhere. Some have become additional rooms, offices, businesses, and even apartments for young couples. With some wood siding a container looks like a rustic cabin. But most containers, ugly and rusting, are an eyesore.
All the caravillas are exactly alike in design, substandard building materials and shoddy construction. There is no insulation: air conditioners run round the clock in the stifling heat; heaters, in the winter damp. Small plots surround each house. Many are filled with ship containers. Others are mostly weed filled and overgrown. A few, reflecting the aesthetic needs of the occupants, are well-tended gardens.
There are five to nine houses on each small street, with a parking lot serving as playground. Most homes are sparkling clean, with brown squeegee, floor rag and water pail decorating the entrance. The lots, however, are a depository of cigarette butts, candy wrappers and nutshells. This is very Israeli and perfectly respectable. I am looked upon with some amusement as I sweep the lot. I'm still Jewish American. My squeegee, etc, are kept in a closet.
One can often see plastic bags filled with stale bread tied to the metal frames of the dumpsters. Having been told that it is a sin to throw away bread, the residents leave it to the garbage collectors to commit the sin. Of course the cats claw the bags open long before the collectors dispose of them, spilling the bread onto the ground like manna from heaven for ants, roaches and mice. A practiced sinner, I untie still intact bags and throw them in the trash.
A health clinic, mini-market and greengrocer constitute our commercial center. An enterprising couple has converted a ship container into a store selling spices and health food. Other containers and pre-fabs contain offices for the bureaucratic apparatus with which even a refugee camp cannot exist in this country. Each of us has a mailbox, but postal services --stamps, registered mail, paying bills -- are in a mobile post office that arrives between ten and eleven every morning.
More important to my mental well being than any of the above services, Sarah my hairdresser from Gush Katif has her 'salon' in a nearby container.
Schoolchildren are bused to nearby communities but there are nurseries, kindergartens, a small but attractive library, and rooms have been allocated for youth movement activities.
There are no bomb shelters though we are already in Kassam range. A fire would destroy a home in minutes, and there is a working smoke detector in each room. They go off so often, for no apparent reason, that many have removed their batteries. The detector in our kitchen sounds whenever we fry an egg. Opening the front door turns it off.
Just as we were in Gush Katif, we are blessed with charity collectors. And as it was there, so it is here. No one is turned away.
We are looking forward to building our future homes both in the dunes of upper Nitzan and the rolling hills of Lachish. May the Almighty grant us these wishes for the coming year.
Shana Tova. A Happy New Year.
Views expressed by the author do not
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