November 18, 1985

Lush Lavi

    “What a marvelous idea,” trilled one tourist, “building a kibbutz in the middle of a park.”

    Kibbutz Lavi does appear to be reclaimed from rich tropical gardens, rather than from the barren, rocky hill that is its actual origin.

    The story of Lavi is classically Zionist. A group of 45 religious youths settled the hill alongside the Horns of Hittin in 1949, the site chosen for its strategic location on the Tiberias-Nazareth road.

    The clutch of intrepid pioneers first set to clearing the wind-blown hill. For three years they did nothing but harvest rocks. Water had to be trucked in from a distant spring. The hill had been dead for centuries.

    Today, the original settlers still living at Lavi stroll through grounds so lush that trees have had to be cut down to prevent them from choking each other. Vegetation runs the gamut from cactus to evergreen. Carefully tended gardens abound and large tracts of shamrock-green lawns sprawl where the thickets of forestry let them. Truly, how could a visitor be expected to believe that not too long ago, “there was not a blade of grass to be found” on Kibbutz Lavi?

    As with the flora, Lavi has cultivated tourism. The modern three-star guest house (which claims a four-star standard) has developed a domestic following so strong that in he past some holiday vacationers, having spent Pessah or Succot there, immediately requested reservations for the following year – only to be told that it was already fully booked!

    Eighteen months ago the kibbutz added a 64-room wing to the existing 60 rooms. The hotel is equipped with an outdoor pool and tennis court, and beautiful scenery.

    Indeed, one could easily miss the side road into the kibbutz. At that point, the main road suddenly dives into a steep incline that ends well below sea level. Straight ahead, coming into view for the first time, is Tiberias, its skyline slung gracefully over a sort of geological hiccup. To the right the roadside view breaks dramatically to reveal the magnificent stratum of the Yavniel Valley plateau, an expansive stretch of checkerboard browns and greens. Ooh and aah later; the Lavi cut-off is immediately to your left.

    Lavi is the antithesis of urbanity. There you can smell the air, the trees, the cows (some people like the smell of cows – beats bus fumes by a country mile); you hear the birds, and little else; the sky seems bluer.

    A stay at Lavi inevitably means a guided tour of the grounds. You might tread utopia with a one-eyed Yorkshireman nicknamed Obby. His real name doesn’t matter – it hasn’t been used since he joined the kibbutz in 1963.  A father of six, Obby has all the answers for even the most absurd, provocative or nebulously hypothetical questions. He’ll answer with keen insight and impish humor.

    Obby is a typical Lavi oldtimer. The earlier generations came chiefly from Britain and central Europe, from the ranks of the Bnei Akiva movement. Today the 600 residents are comprised of a full array of nationalities, including about 250 native Israelis.

    The guest house was built close to the living quarters of the kibbutz, in order to give the wayfarer the feeling of acceptance as a guest of the community itself, and not just as a customer. Nearby, too, are the 800 head of cattle, 60,000 breast of chicken, and six horses. The poultry houses are the only areas off limits to visitors, to prevent the spread of potentially disastrous (to the chickens) disease.

    City slickers are content to converse with the cows (and they do; they think it’s funny), and pat the heads of calves, some as young as a day old.

    The front-desk manager is a tourist attraction unto himself. Guests often ask to meet CB Kaye, the roguishly gregarious Irishman with the fruity language, who is capable of flinging epithets and making them sound like a bestowal. His use of four-letter words is an art form.

    Having met CB, one might feel the urge to inspect the kibbutz synagogue. Its architecture evokes the style of Galilean synagogues of ancient times. Facing the synagogue, and architecturally integrated with it, is the Beit Midrash (study hall).

    Between the two buildings is a small, beautiful stone plaza featuring inlaid mosaics of the 12 tribes of Israel. The interior of this spiritual center was furnished by the kibbutzniks themselves. So acclaimed was their handiwork that they were convinced to produce such furniture commercially. The woodworking shop is now a major industry, having outfitted some 800 synagogues in Israel, plus another 30 in eight countries abroad, making the plant the largest producer of synagogue furniture in the world.

    At the southeastern corner of the kibbutz frontier is a little patch of floral exotica. From this spot a magnificent panorama accounts for 2,000 years of dreams and determination. The return to Zion must have meant a return to this spot: the skyward surge of the Yavniel tableland; Tiberias, curtsied in front of the looming Golan Heights, with a spoonful of the Sea of Galilee visible alongside the biblical city; the peculiar squeeze of earth that is the Horns of Hittin, site of the last Crusader stand (one can still find arrowheads there, said to be from that historic battle); and then, further on, perched high in the mountains, the jewel-like setting of mystical Safed – all together, a transcendental vista that no camera can capture.