By Miriam Gat
In 1980, I wandered through the lush green fields surrounding the moshav. The orchards stretched wide, blanketing the brown soil in a vibrant tapestry. A quiet battle played out between green and orange - what color would dominate the land? The abundance of oranges shimmered across the fields, glowing in vivid orange. This fruit must be commemorated, I whispered to myself. Imagination took flight, and soon a dance was born - one in which the orange would be lifted and honored.
I first taught the dance at the regional school. The dancing girls held oranges in their hands, raising them like divine offerings.
From that moment on, year after year, generation after generation, the Orange Dance gained energy and spirit. The orange became a symbol of celebration.
Thirty-five years passed. In 2016, the agricultural landscape once again called out to me. I went in search of it, longing to be enveloped by its scent.
But I searched in vain for the orange. The very color had all but disappeared with the years. The orchards had been uprooted. Trees lay fallen on the clods of earth, their roots exposed, crying out to the sky.
And so, I reached an inevitable decision: to bring the tradition to an end. I would empty the hands of the dancing girls.
The year 2016 would mark the first time the Orange Dance would be performed without the presence of the orange. The fruit that once gave life here in the 1930s, that drew pioneers to settle the wilderness, had faded from the land.
Only the orange scarf remained - an echo of days gone by, a memory preserved.