This piece is part of our Wit­ness­ing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the expe­ri­ences of Jew­ish writ­ers around the globe in the after­math of Octo­ber 7th.

It is crit­i­cal to under­stand his­to­ry not just through the books that will be writ­ten lat­er, but also through the first-hand tes­ti­monies and real-time account­ing of events as they occur. At Jew­ish Book Coun­cil, we under­stand the val­ue of these writ­ten tes­ti­mo­ni­als and of shar­ing these indi­vid­ual expe­ri­ences. It’s more impor­tant now than ever to give space to these voic­es and narratives.

The Svach

On vol­un­teer­ing at the Beer She­va Midbarium

As I step into the svach,

I wish I were wear­ing boots.

The mud is relentless,

and the ducks aren’t so nice.

A svach is a thick­et where birds

can find shel­ter. In this case, the svach

is a par­tic­u­lar exhib­it in the old zoo

reserved for pain-in-the-ass birds 

we have nowhere else to keep.

The small pond must be emptied 

and refilled. I plunge my hand into 

the murky water feel­ing for the plug.

Cold water rush­es into my gloves.

It’s win­ter, and I’ve saved my sleeve

by hik­ing it up my arm. Now my hands

are cold. The water refus­es to drain.

I use the trick Dalia taught me.

I take the long black stick and thrust

it in and out of the clogged drain. 

While the water drains, I rake the dry

part of the enclo­sure, pick­ing up

strewn veg­eta­bles and a few stray leaves.

The chick­ens edge around me 

peck­ing for their food. 

Dalia tells me the ducks will soon

leave the zoo. They’ve been here since 

Octo­ber 8, evac­uees of the West­ern Negev.

They’ve harmed not only a diminutive, 

white chick­en but also a convalescing 

Eurasian stone-curlew, a sweet bird

who looks like a tiny roadrunner. 

This is my last assign­ment for the day.

I plug the open­ing, fill the pond,

retract the hose, step out of the 

coop to turn off the water, and

step back in to dis­trib­ute the food.

I am dream­ing of a warm shower

where my feet are dry and I’m 

freed from the tedium 

of these slight creatures.

I lean into the work, the routine

of car­ing for these animals,

know­ing that to mas­ter the mundane

is to live a pro­found life.

The views and opin­ions expressed above are those of the author, based on their obser­va­tions and experiences.

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