I grew up in what Israelis fondly refer to as a חור hole (chohr) – slang for a place that is in the middle of nowhere, a location that is insignificant or unimportant. Yet at the same time, my childhood home holds a unique place in the Israeli ethos.
Kibbutz Yotvata sits deep in the southern desert, wrapped in cliffs and bordered by the silhouettes of the Jordanian mountains. Its claim to fame comes from its dairy factory, which has been producing milk and other products for decades, most notably – chocolate milk in a bag שוקו בשקית (shoh-koh beh-sah-keet), the kind that is cold, fresh, and is best served on a warm summer day, next to a לחמנייה bun (lahch-mah-nee-yah).
The catchy commercials, accompanied by the classic bolero by Maurice Ravel, have become a familiar, constantpresence in Israeli culture. One that is reliable and represents the essence of Israeli kibbutz life. Here’s a nostalgic example:
Giving all you can and receiving what you need
But for me, the brand identity is irrelevant; Yotvata is my home. It is where my grandfather planted trees and paved roads with his hands, where my mother learned to ride a horse. Where values were not abstract ideas but a daily practice: you give all you can, and take only what you need.
The kibbutz itself (the one hidden from visitors who stop for refreshments and fuel on their way to Eilat, in the iconic ‘Yotvata Inn’) is green in defiance of its surroundings. An oasis stitched into beige nothingness: green grass, flowers, and idyllic family homes. Fields stretch wide and orderly, transforming the desert soil through agricultural innovation, and the stone pavement hums beneath the unforgiving sun.
It is, for all those who are lucky to visit, heaven. And apparently, heaven is quiet; the desert is somehow deafeningly silent. It’s hard to explain how the absence of sound is so loud.
It is also a place where everyone knows everyone – and I mean everyone. Families are braided together by decades of friendships, marriages, betrayals, reconciliations, and shared history. A small, dense hub of humanity where nothing is truly forgotten; It is beautiful. And it is suffocating.
Becoming a city mouse
By the time I was fourteen, I knew that I did not want to stay there any longer. I wanted to grow and develop and to leave the place that I felt would keep me small, and so I tried – knowing I’ll regret it if I didn’t – to pursue education in the big city. No, not Eilat (the closest city, 40 km south), I mean the real city. The unofficial capital of Israel: Tel Aviv.
So when I was accepted to an art school in Tel Aviv, I did something that felt both brave and wildly irresponsible: I moved to the city — to my biological father’s apartment in the Old North neighborhood. From desert to sidewalks. From cows to buses. From stars to streetlights.
Looking back, sending a fourteen-year-old straight into the city with minimal supervision feels… questionable. At the time, it felt like freedom. I went from country mouse to city mouse in a matter of weeks. Certainly, my life was just beginning. I was giddy. Terrified. And also completely unprepared.
Learning how to cross the street
This sounds like a joke, but it isn’t. In Yotvata, cars are rare, and you walk or cycle everywhere – there are no crosswalks. In Tel Aviv, I lived near the corner of Ben Yehuda and Dizengoff streets, where traffic doesn’t pause for a moment. There was no pedestrian light near my building, just adult confidence (which I lacked), and striped asphalt. I stood on the curb, trying to decide when was now. The city does not wait for you to feel ready.
Public transportation was another frontier. My parents, supportive and mildly alarmed, rode the bus with me several times to make sure I wouldn’t disappear forever. It was line 55, from the old Reading Station through the city, past my school on the seam between Tel Aviv and Givatayim, and kept going all the way to Qiryat Ono. I memorized the stops, and after a few rides, I was confident enough to tell my parents they didn’t need to chaperone me anymore.
The shoplifting incident
And then there was shoplifting… Accidental! I promise. In the kibbutz, fruit is not something you pay for. Especially in Yotvata, a place that is still deeply communal and somehow preserves old kibbutz values till this day. Onions are not purchased; they are harvested. You do not scan vegetables in the cash register.
And so, when I walked into a Tel Aviv grocery store and walked out with a couple of apples and pears tucked absentmindedly into my bag, it genuinely did not register as theft. When I realized what I did, was justifiably mortified – even to this day, almost 15 years later. I swear it was ideological confusion, not a planned crime.
Going out for drinks in “Compromise”
The city, unlike the desert, is never quiet. I lived at a central point, where the buildings brush against the Yarkon Park, where the port is a five-minute walk, and nights can bleed easily into mornings.
In Yotvata, we had a disco called פשרה (compromise), because that’s exactly what it was. A small club tucked beneath the school’s basketball court. It was the only option for a party we could come up with, having lived so far away from everything.
In Tel Aviv, the iconic Rosa Parks pub was five minutes away. Young. Loud. Packed. The city did not compromise; it constantly expanded. Sounds of jackhammers and trucks were always ringing through the night.
In Yotvata, I saw the same faces every day of my life. In Tel Aviv, faces changed constantly. A new barista, a new neighbor, a new person you might never see again. It was a non-stop barrage of interactions and possibilities. In the desert silence was populated: Ibexes on cliffs, foxes cutting through sand, and snakes and scorpions to watch out for. In Tel Aviv, the closest equivalent was a dog slipping from its leash, sprinting joyfully away from its owner.
Still searching for my home
I lived in Tel Aviv for nine years, occasionally coming back home for short and longer visits, most noticeably during COVID. In 2021, I left Israel with the quiet certainty that Tel Aviv had begun to feel too small. My journey took me through small, remote villages and islands that you can walk around in thirty minutes. It took me to São Paulo and Mexico City, to San José and Panama. I lived in New York, exactly where the subway line ends in Brooklyn, and in the Jewish ghetto of Montreal. I saw small towns in Europe with cobblestones and walkable layouts. I walked the vast, wealthy streets of Madrid and the boardwalks of Stockholm, bitten by the stinging Nordic winds.
I’m not sure if I’m a city mouse or a country mouse. I miss home – the views, the smells of Jasmine and spring harvests. I love Tel Aviv, New York, and Stockholm with all my heart. I’m still searching for my home: one that will allow me to grow and bloom. My head is always in the clouds, wondering how high I can reach, while also searching for the place that will allow me to stay still and delve into myself.
It was somewhere between oasis and asphalt that I learned that identity is shaped not only by where you are born, but where and why you choose to leave, and what you carry with you when you go.
