Journey into Zionism: What I learned from Kibbutz Ketura

People often ask me why a college graduate would want to volunteer on a kibbutz, especially when presented with the alternative internship option through OTZMA. You learn to get used to that kind of thing when you major in sociology at a university most known for its medical school. I get inquiries all the time along the lines of, "Sociology, huh. That's just like psychology, right?" and "Oh... and what do you plan on doing with that, exactly?" The truth is, anyone with a degree in the social sciences has a mental picture of their future about as clear as the Jordanian hills on a windy afternoon in May. Me, I always assumed that I would eventually end up working in some type of food or service industry - I just didn't realize it would happen right away.

I've been working in the dining hall on Kibbutz Ketura since shortly before Pesach. I joke with my OTZMA friends in their cushy internships in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, boasting that I'm the hottest lunch lady this place has ever seen. But you see, working in the cheder ochel involves a lot more than gracefully dishing out ladles of stir-fry chicken or beef goulash and then cleaning up the mess after late lunch. This job takes self-direction, diligence, and above all, a keen understanding of what makes people happy. Indeed, my education may have ended the day I received my Hopkins diploma, but it started right back up again when I unpacked my belongings in Gimel-3 The last three months have been truly enlightening, as I've picked up quite a few insights into what makes this place run like a sunny-side-up egg on a Thursday morning, including:

That making a perfect pitcher of mint lemonade is the golden ticket to popularity.

That patience is a virtue, especially when breakfast foods are involved; i.e., one blackened pancake is worth five undercooked ones.

That it's better not to notice when someone returns for a third, fourth, or even fifth helping of shnitzel.

That walking into the dining hall with an uncovered, full tub of chocolate milk powder is a hazard to one's physical health.

That there's no shame in an adult eating off of plastic flatware; conversely, there's no honor in eating without a tray underneath if you can't keep your food on your plate.

That hours of operation are mere suggestions in the cheder ochel because hunger doesn't correspond with Ketura Standard Time.

That it's time to replace the cup tray when there are fewer than eight cups left; anything less than that and everyone assumes they are dirty and sitting there for a reason.

That you can generally guess the age and/or home country of whoever sat at a table based on the crumbs on the floor. (Huge pile of eggshells = teenage Americans; white rice and broken toothpicks under every chair = kibbutz kids from the gan.)

That there is always a more colorful way of describing any given food. For instance, "leftover, unidentifiable, white meat" becomes "twice-roasted turkey filet," and "greasy fish balls" is instead "ground salmon dumplings with savory marinade."

That the moment someone drops a cup, it's absolutely imperative to stop everything and clean up broken glass in order to avoid injuries to barefooted patrons.

And lastly, that even outside of the parameters of college, you can still get out of anything by offering to write a paper about it - even working in the cheder ochel.