אוירא דארץ ישראל Avira DEretz Yisroel

Dini Harris, Afula Illit, Afula

It wasn’t my idea to live in Eretz Yisroel. In fact, I probably never would have agreed to meet my husband if I had known how serious he was about living here. When we were first engaged, we came to an agreement: We were going to start off our marriage in Eretz Yisroel. We’d live there for about two years.

Now, twenty-two years and ten Hebrew-speaking kids later, it seems that, b’ezras HaShem, we’re here for the long term.

And no, we don’t live in Ramat Eshkol anymore, where we first started our married life. We didn’t move to Ramat Beit Shemesh or even Kiryat Sefer either.

About fifteen years ago, my husband felt it was time for him to move on from kollel and start using his talents to teach Torah; we started looking into different opportunities that came up.

Should he join a kiruv kollel in Edmonton, Canada or Portland, Oregon? Ideas and opportunities kept popping up, but for one reason or another, they all got dropped along the way.

Then my husband’s aunt came to visit with fabulous news: Her husband was opening a yeshivah in Afula, a city somewhere in the north of Israel.

I had never heard of Afula before, but that didn’t stop me from saying the first thing that came to my mind: Perhaps the yeshivah had an opening for my husband?

I wasn’t worried about actually moving to Afula because I figured that just like all other opportunities hadn’t ever panned out, the idea of moving to Afula would eventually die down too.

But this time, everything moved along in a positive direction and, a few months later, we found ourselves in a taxi following behind a moving truck taking our possessions to our new home in Afula.

To say that it was an adjustment doesn’t do justice to the sharp contrast we experienced. Only after moving to Afula did we realize that we hadn’t really lived in Eretz Yisroel before.

True we had lived in Ramat Eshkol, but, surrounded as we were by an Anglo community, we had minimal contact with Israelis and had never thought of integrating.

The adjustment was compounded by the fact that when we moved to Afula, the overwhelming majority of our neighbors were Sephardic and non-religious. And even our religious counterparts were of North African descent. Warm, welcoming and friendly as they were, I still felt, accurately so, that I had landed on another planet.

Living in this type of situation — a situation in which I couldn’t send over food to a family when their mother had a baby, because the neighbors couldn’t stomach my (delicious!) food; in which I couldn’t contribute to a group conversation because I didn’t fully understand what was being said; and in which I was never sure how to react in social situations, because the social code was completely different than anything I grew up with — was both difficult and empowering.

It was either do or die. Grow or wither. Baruch Hashem, I hope the experience has promoted personal growth. I am wiser and better-rounded than I was when I arrived here.

My husband, too, has grown and stretched. In a place where there were very few talmidei chachamim, my husband was quickly pressed into service. He’s taught Torah to different types of people in many different forums. He is able to fulfill his lifelong dream of being a mohel and uses his expertise to make sure that local newborns can get mehudar brissim right here in Afula.

But meanwhile, during the fifteen years that we have been here in Afula, something amazing happened. In a twisty, roundabout way — a long story in its own right, about nine years ago, it was realized that housing in Afula is very cheap and, baruch HaShem, it has the infrastructure necessary for frum life. The local Talmud Torah and Bais Yaakov are top rate.

With the berachah and guidance of Rav Aharon Leib Shteinman zt”l, a tiny community opened in the Givat Hamoreh neighborhood of Afula.

When we arrived in Afula fifteen years ago, nobody thought it possible that a thriving frum community could blossom in this secular city. But that little community in Givat Hamoreh starting growing and growing. And every frum family that’s happy in Afula attracts at least another three.

This rush of frum families to Afula has, in the past few years, started to flow into Afula Illit, my neighborhood, too.

From the side, I watch as the benches in our Ashkenazi shul fill up. It was built about sixty years ago by Holocaust survivors who named it “Netzach Yisroel.” Unfortunately, though, by the time we moved here, there was barely a minyan on Shabbos.

But then one new family moved in, then two, and now tens more. Netzach Yisroel now houses a vibrant kollel and minyanim every single day. Today, the shul’s name proudly proclaims: Netzach Yisroel — Am Yisroel and the Torah are eternal. Nothing – not the Holocaust, nor Zionism nor secularism has succeeded in stamping out the flame.

The families moving to Afula Illit today have a completely different experience than I did when we moved here. No longer is the frum person the odd one out; there’s a flourishing community.

Many grocery stores stock up on food with the best hechsherim and there are stores galore for shoes and clothing and other necessities for frum families.

I feel old as I watch the community grow. The families arriving today don’t understand that there once was a different Afula. But I’m happy for them. They’re moving into a neighborhood with a warm, friendly community; a neighborhood with a Torah infrastructure.

Baruch HaShem; as I witness the success of Afula Illit, I know it underscores the growth of the Torah community as a whole in Eretz Yisroel.

Afula Way Back

Way back when, when we were one of the few frum families in Afula, I boarded the bus with my kids. The bus driver couldn’t hold back and counted my kids out loud as they got on. “One, two, three, four, five… Wow, that’s a big family!” was his final comment.

In Yerushalayim, where so many families are careful to only buy foods with the most mehudar hechsherim, the word “Badatz” is synonymous with “Badatz Eidah HaCharedis,” but when we moved to Afula, we learned to be careful.

Badatz is literally the initials of “Beis Din Tzedek” and storekeepers who didn’t know better were quick to assure us that their wares were “Badatz.” Only “Badatz.” Never mind, that they were sometimes Badatz of Umm al-Fahm or Jenin. We learned to say it clearly: Badatz Eidah HaCharedis.

“Jewish girls don’t live on farms.”

When Mum said this to me, there was an undertone of panic in her voice that I wasn’t used to hearing from my easy-going, upbeat mother.

I knew she had nothing against farming, though it was a rather whimsical life-goal for a teenaged girl growing up in a middle-class, largely Jewish suburb of Sydney, Australia. Her real worry was that since there is no Jewish agriculture in Australia, my dream meant closely associating with non-Jews.

She was terrified of where that might lead.

When I moved to Eretz Yisroel as a young adult, I hoped to find a husband with whom I would share a more rural life. But when I brought this up with my teachers in seminary, they warned me about how unrealistic my farm dreams were. Farming is a very hard way to make a living and there are no English-speaking yeshiva guys who want such a lifestyle. Even in Eretz Yisroel, it meant living removed from chadarim and rabbonim and the flow of mainstream frum life.

From both my parents and my teachers I understood that pursuing my farming dreams necessitated compromising my spiritual dreams. Besides that, it was impractical.

I am both spiritual and practical. I got the message.

Soon I met and married my husband, Rabbi Shmuel Yosef Elbinger, who learns in kollel. I have an enterprising nature and I took to the role of primary breadwinner with enthusiasm. Baruch HaShem I was blessed with success in my marketing and web development businesses. I was also zoche to mentor many other entrepreneurs, particularly as a driving force behind the Temech Conference, a huge annual event in Yerushalayim for frum women in business.

Though I accepted the fact that farm life was out of reach, I invested my time in promoting nature education in chadarim and Beis Yaakovs around Eretz Yisroel and that was very rewarding. I dabbled in small-scale homesteading projects. I grew cucumbers and made yogurt. With the flow of years, this grew to encompass keeping egg-laying hens, picking olives for oil, beekeeping, fermenting vegetables and making my own soap.

I was happily busy with my family, my career, and my community work – and yet my farming interests never left me. Instead they only grew.

After we moved into our apartment in Ramat Beit Shemesh four years ago, I took it to the next level, planting 12 fruit trees and building raised beds for 60+ vegetable plants in our small yard.

My goal is not just to grow some food, but to enrich the landscape and develop an ecosystem where native plants, birds and wildlife live in harmony with my family.

Then, about a year-and-a-half ago, I suddenly realized:

I am a farmer.

True, I don’t have rolling acres and a barn. True, I don’t earn my parnassa from it.

I didn’t close my business. I didn’t move to a moshav. I didn’t compromise my spiritual values.

Nevertheless, a farmer I am.

Farming the Land

There is something special about farming in Eretz Yisroel. I have gotten to know some local farmers and they are happy to collaborate with me on projects. They are different from me in lifestyle, but we are all Jews and there is so much that binds us together.

When my backyard farm started to attract attention, I asked Rabbi Doniel Faber, rosh yeshiva of Yeshuos Yisroel in Ramat Beit Shemesh, about whether this measure of “farm fame” was positive for our family. His encouraging answer surprised me.

“So many frum Jews crave a closer connection to nature,” he said. “If they’re from a more open background, they feel they have to stray from their communities to get it. If they’re from a more insular background, they tell themselves ‘This is not for someone like me. There’s no way I can do this.’ That’s also unhealthy. So your message is essential. And when you are doing something for Klal Yisroel you can never have a nezek (harm).”

With that encouragement, I began to run tours and workshops in my backyard, which I call “Bloomah’s City Farm.” (Bloomah is my other name.)

This year I also founded a women’s community farm here in Ramat Beit Shemesh, where women who don’t have gardens come together to plant, nurture and harvest vegetables, to be mekayem the mitzvos ha’teluyos b’aretz and generally have lots of healthy outdoor fun.

Now I am preparing for shmitta, which starts this coming Rosh Hashana (5782). Friends asked if they can purchase a slice of our farm so that they can have a stake in the mitzvah. We agreed to sell it to them for eighteen shekels!

It won’t be easy to cease work in my backyard. At least five times a day I gravitate out there to train a vine or pull a weed or pick a fruit. I love living off my farm. I try never to eat a meal that doesn’t include something I grew myself.

It will be so hard to let it all go to ruin!

I hope I will be able to keep in mind that this is my special zechus. There is no more intimate way to connect to the Land than to touch it with your own hands, to learn its language and cooperate with the forces of Creation to grow something beautiful.

The inspiration it gives me goes hand-in-hand with trusting the imperative to stop for a year.

But for now I am enjoying summer’s bounty.

My mother loves to see all the things we grow and hear about our adventures. She gets nachas from seeing my kids’ enthusiasm for it.

Neither of us would have imagined this back in Sydney but…

Jewish girls do live on farms … in the middle of a beautiful frum community in a rapidly growing city in Eretz Yisroel.

Hold On, Don’t I Know Your Name from Somewhere?

When I talk excitedly about urban farming, sometimes people get confused because they know Naomi Elbinger as the author of the Torah novel Yedidya (co-authored with Rabbi Daniel Yaakov Travis).

Yedidya is a profound exploration of emunah concepts embedded in a page-turning novel about a yeshiva bochur. It has nothing to do with farming!

To clarify, I am an author as well as an entrepreneur, farmer and kollel wife. There are several reasons why I’ve never regretted following the advice of my parents and teachers to pursue a mainstream lifestyle and career. One of them is that this gave me the skills and opportunity to write Yedidya, which has taken off in such a big way, inspiring and helping Jews around the world!

You can start reading Yedidya free here