by Atsila Eitan
From all that I remember about the early days of our school - everything has changed. The landscape changed, the villages grew, houses expanded, the look and clothing of people transformed. And amid all this, the appearance of our school and its way of life changed too. Only the blue sky and the shining sun remained just as they were.
You may ask: how is that possible? You’ll say: it can’t be! And yet - it is. Let me explain how things unfolded.
Chapter One: In Which the Colors Yellow, Red, and Blue Compete to Paint the Landscape, and the Flowers Are Pushed to the Valley’s Edges
Once, all the many trees and scattered houses you see today were missing from our landscape. The land was empty and desolate. Only the wind moved through the expanse of wild grasses, waist-high, with nothing to block the horizon. Every hill was truly a hill, every valley - a valley, and every plain stretched wide. The sand dunes were real dunes, where one could climb to the top and slide down with laughter. From a hilltop, we could see westward all the way to the sea through the breach carved by the Poleg stream in the line of coastal sandstone hills, and eastward to the hills of Ephraim.
This was the landscape of our childhood - etched with deep ravines, along whose edges grew and bloomed the flowers of the Sharon. Each flower in its season, marking the passage of time. Right after the first rain came the snails, leaving silver trails on the damp sand. Then we spotted the first puddles. Soon, the first blossoms appeared - the autumn crocus peeking out of white sand, followed by the winter crocus. Next came red splashes of anemones, buttercups, and tulips - the great color contest of nature had begun.
As red and yellow clashed, blue hues crept in - lupines and chicory. Here and there, we saw the deep purple-green of arums. Field bindweed with striped petals lured insects like a trap. Even after some flowers withered, the competition continued: poppies replaced anemones, yellow filled the fields with sow thistle, blue persisted with sage and cranesbill. In summer, their seed pods curled like clocks. Toward summer’s end, many of these plants turned into thorny, gray stalks.
So many flowers once flourished in our area - but as the moshavim grew and every patch of land was cultivated, most wildflowers vanished, surviving only at the edges of fields.
The villages changed too. More farms were added, lands expanded, public buildings erected, gardens and groves planted, roads paved, and streetlights installed. But back then, each village had only a few residential huts and one central communal shack. Nearby stood the “bakim” - huge tanks raised on poles for water storage.
And the people? Surely they changed too. For in those days, the grandparents of Dror, Iris, and Shahar were young, straight-backed and dark-haired - hard to believe. If you had seen them in the fields at dawn, plowing with a mule-drawn plow, or weeding citrus saplings with a hoe, you’d understand.
The grandmothers - now with white hair - were then not only beautiful young women, but industrious ones too. Their hands worked the fields, and yet they kept their huts neat, decorating them with white cloths and embroidered curtains. They raised hens and chicks, milked the cow, and baked bread with their own hands. At night, by kerosene lamp, they sewed clothes for us children.
Even our clothing changed. Back then, boys wore peaked caps and short pants down to the knees. Girls wore black velvet dresses with frilly white collars - a bit “exile-style.” When these fine clothes wore out, they were replaced by “Eretz-Israeli” attire: blue shirts and khaki shorts.
And how did the school change? Let’s set aside the curriculum - what about school life? You all know the school started in a railway car. But as four classes formed and the number of children grew, it became too small. So the school moved to the “camp” - a cluster of huts along the road to Kfar Hess.
The camp housed workers. At its center stood the dining hall hut, and at the edge, the grand horse stable - for there were no tractors then; work was done with horses and mules. Next to the camp were the nurseries where citrus saplings were grown for today’s orchards.
For some reason, the school huts were next to a giant sheep manure heap, used for fertilizing the young orchards. Brought in by Arabs, it rose as tall as a house. That heap became the playground centerpiece during breaks. One class defended the summit, the other tried to conquer it. During the charge, feet sank up to the knees in dung, shoes filled with droppings, sweat dripped, and dust clung.
Imagine what we looked like after every recess.
We walked to and from school on foot. Sometimes we’d race through the orchards, sometimes walk together singing. In rainy days, most of us wore burlap sacks - we had no raincoats. The challenge was crossing the valleys swollen by rain. At the edge, we’d stop. The teachers, aided by two older boys lucky enough to own boots (then a rare treasure), would carry us across on their backs.
After two years at the camp, an English Jew named Israel Ziv helped the local council build a proper school in Kfar Ziv. The main wing was a marvel - four classrooms, a teacher’s room, library, hall, and stage. The yard was vast but barren, save for a lone oak and patches of wild grass.
We rolled up our sleeves and planted the western yard. Two more huts were built - one for a dining room (we had cooking lessons and had to eat what we made, poor us!), and one for crafts. To the east stretched young orchards; to the west, plains of wild grasses waving in the wind. Farther on, the first buildings of Even Yehuda. In front of us were the homes of the Tikle family - an Arab family that owned most of the Bnei Dror lands. The only trees were in “Gan Eden” - an orchard between us and the Tikles.
“Gan Eden” (Paradise) was ringed by prickly pear fences, bearing sweet fruit. Inside grew huge fig trees offering shade and every kind of fruit.
Why “Gan Eden”? If you remember the surrounding desolation - a land without shade - you’ll understand. At the schoolyard’s northern edge ran the “King’s Road” to Arab villages in the east. Along it passed camel caravans, led by an Arab on a donkey, or herds with barking dogs. Sometimes a shepherd neared the school and played his flute, accompanied by the rhythmic “tuk-tuk” of their water pump.
One day, the most wondrous sight passed by - a wedding procession. The veiled bride, decorated, sat beneath a canopy on a camel’s hump, while Arab horsemen raced and competed around her. Women in bright garments sang and beat drums and cymbals. It was so spectacular we all ran out of class to watch.
But soon came the end. The violent riots of 1936–1939 broke out. Even our bloc suffered losses. First fell the guard Israel Goldberg (Jimmy), and soon after, a mass grave was dug for four Ein Vered members killed en route to work in the orchards. Moshav members stood guard at night, fearing for our - the children’s - safety.
At first, we were allowed to attend school with armed escorts, who secured the road and manned hilltop posts. But eventually, it became too dangerous. Walking to Tel Mond was banned. We studied in the village instead - two to three classes per room - for nearly two years. Then came WWII.
The war calmed tensions between Jews and Arabs. Once danger subsided, we returned to the school in Tel Mond.
Meanwhile, more classes were added - one per year - for a 10-year program up to Grade 10. But rooms did not grow, and the crowding worsened. They tried afternoon shifts, then slowly converted all auxiliary rooms into classrooms - the dining room, craft room, hall, library… even the stage became the teachers’ room. Eventually, rooms were rented from neighbors.
Another change came with better finances: every family bought a donkey. As we grew, we were allowed to ride to school. Donkeys often carried two or three siblings. The sight was joyful - every morning, a donkey caravan set out from every village to school. Even the teachers rode donkeys. On the way, we raced. Sometimes a child fell mid-gallop and the donkey ran back home.
The donkey herd tied up along the eastern school fence. Donkeys are clever - every lesson, one would untie itself, start a fight, and soon a chase began, joined by the whole herd, braying loudly. When we heard the racket, we knew what was happening - and rushed out to break it up. There was little point returning to class - especially with the wondrous world outside. The orchards had grown - providing shade and fruit.
Trolley tracks ran through them, carrying crates to the packing houses, where people worked “Arab-style,” sitting on mats. We’d sneak onto the trolleys, riding them like real trains. Our imaginations ran ahead - we felt we were on a journey across the world.
Special trees lured us - grapefruits, blood oranges, mandarins. We’d sneak in to taste them - these fruits had a magical pull, as our own orchards hadn’t yet matured. Only the scolding of orchard managers sent us back to school.
In summary - little by little, trees grew, homes rose and hid the view. The school expanded, graduating class after class. Many alumni carried on their parents’ farming legacy. Some fell in Israel’s wars. Girls from those early days now teach there, and soon the grandchildren of the first students will walk its halls. Like everything around us, the school has changed - for change is the way of pioneers.
Only the blue sky and the sun’s golden glow remain just as they were.
From “Our Sharon Plain – The Tel Mond Bloc,” published by the Hefer Valley Regional Council, 1972