A FAREWELL TO CAMP

I felt beads of sweat dripping down my neck. Summer days in the big city are insufferably hot, especially two days after you return from Camp Habonim.

During those two days I had been struggling to write an analytical article on Camp Habonim, 1959, in this, the beginning of the twenty-fifth anniversary of Habonim. Yet, I had become, even more than usual, a displaced person, at large in the metropolitan city. After having been at camp for more than nine weeks, the city seemed empty, silent, and far away, even though it actually surrounded me.

I have been at many camps, but this was my first experience of life at Camp Kvutza in the U.S.A. While somewhat critical of certain aspects of it, I came to feel that our present Camp Kvutza had become more of an emotional experience rather than an experience of the mind. Therefore, while still so close to its emotional impact, it was almost impossible to write about it in an analytical vein without distorting at least some of its inherent values.

Here the pen paused. I suddenly got up from behind the table, and I looked out from our small window. The city street was basked in sun. The houses looked deserted. I had a vague feeling that, all of a sudden, some of the familiar faces and people from camp would show up from behind the corner. But the street remained empty. Maybe I would never meet them again. Instead of a searching analysis of Camp Kvutza, my pen wrote a few glimpses and somewhat nostalgic memories of Camp Habonim, 1959.

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Joanie likes Shabbat best of all the days of camp—she told me so. There is no other day like Shabbat. And, indeed, there is an atmosphere of Shabbat at camp, and especially so on Friday night, on Erev Shabbat.

This metamorphosis from weekday to Sabbath starts approximately at five o'clock on Friday afternoon. Some people will suddenly disappear, not to be seen for another two hours. Within an hour or so not a drop of hot water will remain in any shower room. The whole camp looks deserted; only a few solelim still play outside. But, around seven o'clock, many an Eliza Doolittle will have become a Pygmalion—Israeli version. The whole camp is dressed in white, and a friendly procession will walk to the silent swimming pool or up Shabbat Hill.

I am always surprised by the very large number of campers who possess what seems to be an endless supply of white Shabbat clothes. However, more stimulating, in an intellectual way, is the inventiveness of many campers who, by intelligent borrowing, diligent begging, and belligerent persuasion, manage to wear at least one of the embroidered Israeli shirts. These shirts have become a definite feature of what we may call Habonim fashions. Sometimes a certain beautiful Yemenite blouse, which has become associated in your mind with a certain personality, will reappear in the course of a camp season on half a dozen other people, male and female alike. In this way you gain an insight not only into camp vogue, but also into the course friendships take within a period of two long months.

From the semi-silence of nature and the pensiveness of Shabbat readings near the pool we follow uncertain but welcome scents into the dining hall. Here the silence and darkness soon change into light and warmth, when we partake of Millie's cooking genius—and Shabbat songs. The white color still predominates; only some of the very young ones add to it the hues of food just eaten.

The oneg Shabbat is not always of equal quantity and beauty. Sometimes it appears to me too much like a performance of the few without enough participation of the many. Soon the oneg Shabbat will end and the dancing will commence. During the first few weeks the dancing of Israeli folk dances is in need of much organizing and inspiration. But after those initial weeks the circle of dancers grows gradually larger and larger. Soon the joyous jumping grows into a rhythmic pattern. One Friday night, towards the end of camp, you suddenly realize that the whole camp is dancing. Now this rhythmic pattern inspires, so to speak, the organization of the camp. Yes, Joanie likes Shabbat best of all the days of camp!

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Individual differences can often be measured by people's attitude to work in general and to certain branches of work in particular. Some campers like to be "steady," meaning that, as in their attitude to love and to life, these boys and girls prefer to be attached permanently to one particular branch of work. Then, of course, there are others who never wish to commit themselves. These feel happiest when they are allowed to move freely from one branch to another.

Many campers show their individuality in their attitude towards kitchen duties. Some are of the opinion that their mishmeret (kitchen shift) was definitely and absolutely the best and fastest on record. Alan's mishmeret finished this year within twenty-three minutes. Jerry, however, remembered that, some three years ago, he finished a Shabbat night mishmeret inside sixteen minutes (is this the world record?). Another and very different camp type is the one who will tell you at every opportunity that his kitchen duties are always the longest, the most frequent, and the most difficult on record. The time of crisis arrives, actually, not so much when the two very opposite types work together on kitchen duty, but afterwards when they verbally reconstruct that particular mishmeret in retrospect. This goes to prove that everything depends on how you look at things. Anyhow, the law of relativity has surely been conceived at Habonim camp. But don't tell me any longer that Habonim kids don't like work at camp; they love it! Avi Ben David told them so.

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When she first came to camp, we were all convinced that, sooner or later, she would run away. She had never been to Habonim in the city, and she came to camp not entirely by her own will. She arrived at camp with her thirteen years well disguised by the more expensive products of Helena Rubenstein's and Max Factor's ingenuity. At the fifth week of Habonim camp, another camp happened to visit us. The above "Rubenstein girl" objected strongly: "Look, these girls use make-up at camp. What do they need it for?" At moments just like this you grow suddenly aware of the fact that some of our best and most responsible campers were outsiders and possible misfits only a few weeks ago.

It is nice to be at camp. It is indeed nice to be at "any old camp." Yet, after less than a month, this is no longer "any old camp." Even the newer campers identify themselves now with the Camp Habonim pattern of things. Some customs, like kupa and Hebrew, may not always be fully grasped; but they remain as a challenge and stimulus for later years. This is no longer "any old camp"; a Habonim chevra has taken shape; a tradition has been established, and new loyalties are being born.

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The relative success of evening programs at camp is a sure barometer of the camp spirit prevailing. When camp morale is high and .kids are happy, any type of evening program will be successful. On the other hand, when spirits are low, not even the best program has a normal chance of success. The comparative success of this year's programs only emphasizes the high morale at Camp Habonim but should not blind us to the lack of planning or proper execution of many of these programs. Personally speaking, I would have preferred more interrelationship between the different aspects of our program. There ought to be some connection between what happens during the day and what happens in the evening. Yet time passes fast, and one day you cannot deny it any longer: camp is nearly over! If you have time, you may ponder the question how much will these eight weeks have meant to the kids at camp and how much will they have mean to their madrichim. How much good will a successful camp season bring to our local machanot in the various cities? And more important still, how many of these campers shall we meet again in town or L camp again next year?

The camps are over, and you feel that you would like to send greetings to the campers, in the words of John Milton: "Fare thee well —And if forever—Still forever—Fare thee well!"

ADAM BEN CHANOCH. New York. 1959