Workshopper/Workshnattie
Workshop/Workshnat do some ropes course chevrati Tavornikot on Shabbat
But
not
really.
There's
obviously
no
such
thing
as
a
typical
Workshnattie,
and
I
won't
pretend
otherwise.
On
this
section
of
the
program
we're
split
up
into
groups
of
two
to
four
people
all
over
the
country,
so
clearly
we're
all
having
very
different
experiences.
Each
group
of
us
is
living
with
kids
our
age
from
HaNoar
HaOved
VeHaLomed,
which
we've
heard
ever-so-much
about
since
the
tender
age
of
MBI.
Matt
Becker
and
I
have
been
Galiling
together
since
'95.
We
now
make
up
the
group
of
Habo-Dror
representatives
in
the
lovely
town
of
Chadera,
where
there
have
been
six
shootings
in
the
past
18
months
(or
so
say
the
high
school
kids
we're
teaching
English
to).
The
most
recent
one
happened
last
night
at
about
10:45,
while
I
was
knitting
in
my
room.
(At
last
count,
18
out
of
29
in
our
kvutsa
knit
or
crochet,
not
including
Mikella
our
Scottish
madricha
who
crochets
like
a
madwoman.)
I
heard
the
shots;
a
few
moments
later
I
heard
someone
turn
on
the
radio
downstairs.
If
the
radio
was
going
on,
I
should
be
listening
for
police
sirens.
As
soon
as
I
heard
them
I
knew
it
was
time
to
call
in.
You're
supposed
to
have
a
list
in
your
head
of
everyone
you're
concerned
about
in
the
area,
and
of
course
the
closest
people
who
are
concerned
about
you.
But
who
was
I
supposed
to
call,
after
my
parents
and
madricha?
Everyone
in
the
chava
was
safe;
some
were
already
looking
at
the
damage
in
what
I
imagine
to
be
a
large
crowd
of
anxious
people
hoping
not
to
see
anyone
they
recognized.
I
felt
like
I
should
do
something.
Was
there
anyone
else
I
could
call?
Anyone
I
could
support?
Everone
seemed
to
be
fine,
seemed
to
be
wanting
to
support
me.
Wasn't
there
anything
I
could
do
with
myself?
Be
very
upset
or
worried,
cry,
say
wise
and
peaceful
and
new
things
about
the
situation?
Yes,
there
was
something
I
could
do:
set
the
table.
By
this
time
-
11:30
-
we
were
ready
for
our
usual
dinner,
and
everyone
was
home
for
it.
Over
a
fabulous
meal
of
mostly
starch
we
talked
only
about
the
shooting.
It
was
then
that
I
found
out
where
the
violence
had
taken
place:
Rechov
HaNasih,
three
blocks
away
from
our
chava
and
two
from
the
school
where
I
teach.
"Not
as
close
as
last
time,"
said
Yuval,
one
of
the
HaNoar
HaOvednikim.
Every
day
my
English
students
ask
me
if
I
feel
safe
here.
I
always
give
the
same
answer:
Yes,
but
I
probably
shouldn't.
And
it's
so
true.
I'm
not
scared:
I'm
angry.
I'm
angry
that
violence
happens
and
I
can't
stop
it.
I'm
angry
that
I'm
living
in
a
country
with
a
government
I
don't
want
to
support
in
any
way
—
yet
just
living
here
is
supporting
it.
I"m
angry
that
I'm
in
a
group
of
knitters
and
talkers,
but
with
so
much
potential
-
especially
as
a
kvutsa
-
for
making
change
here.
And
I'm
angry
that
I
should
be
scared.
Shira Etshalom Workshop 51, Israel