In October 1955, my family - the Samedja family - immigrated from Tunisia to Moshav Mishmeret. My father, Edmond-David; my mother, Miriam (“Mimi”); my two brothers, Rami and Gilbert; and I, Maggie, made the journey together. My younger sister Dalia was born in Israel and was the family’s only “sabra.”
I was five years old. Despite my young age, fragments of memory and vivid impressions still accompany me from that time of immigration. As with most early memories, it’s often unclear what truly comes from direct experience and what was later shaped by family stories.
Two factors led my parents to choose Mishmeret. One was their acquaintance with Tamar Maimon, a local resident and aliyah activist from Mishmeret who had visited Tunisia. According to family lore, she even sang at my parents’ wedding and accompanied them on their journey to Israel. The second was the sight of the lush green fields and water sprinklers seen from the road after disembarking at the port of Haifa - these convinced my father to tie his and our future to the moshav.
So, when asked where he wanted to go upon arrival, my father naturally answered, “To the moshav.” He did not understand why my mother was questioned separately, as it was obvious to him they were going together.
I remember two specific things from our arrival in Israel:
The first is a hazy memory of the ship’s rocking. For years afterward, I couldn’t stand the sight of big red apples - they became synonymous with the nausea I felt on that journey.
The second is my mother’s coat - a delicately speckled, soft gray wool coat. The soothing feel of the fabric and its calming color have remained in my memory as a symbol of warmth and quiet optimism during our transition to a new land.
I recall that we were welcomed at the moshav’s supply depot. The veteran residents gathered there to greet us. What I personally remember from that encounter was a sea of legs - that was likely my field of vision at the time.
The dominant color in my mind’s eye from that moment is gray. It was October, and I clung tightly to my mother’s warm, soft coat.
From my parents’ stories, I know that along with the welcoming residents, there were also mice scampering around the supply warehouse that evening.
The agency-provided beds, the small table, the petilya (kerosene stove), a few chairs, and other basic furnishings remained in our lives for many years and are still clearly etched in my memory.
I remember “Israel the instructor,” wearing khaki work clothes and a tembel hat, guiding my father and the other new immigrants as they began their agricultural training.
I also remember the warm evenings when several immigrant families would gather in our home, and Mr. Sugar volunteered to teach them in an informal ulpan setting. “What is this?” he would ask, pointing to a window. “This is a window.”
In reality, though, it was our daily life and the fact that we children were already immersed in Hebrew that helped our parents acquire the language quickly.
Our home initially had two rooms. The toilet and shower were outside. Later, a third room was added, though it was first used not by a person but by a small goat cart - a gift from the Jewish Agency to begin the family’s farming enterprise. Until the barn was built, the goat was a “distinguished tenant” in the new room. Once the barn was complete, the goat was relocated, and we reclaimed our living space.
Though he came from an urban background, my father soon became a full-fledged farmer. He even received awards, including one from President Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, for his work in livestock breeding, particularly sugar beet silage for cattle.
He also planted two dunams of coffee shrubs and managed to harvest fruit once or twice - an agricultural adventure, as he called it. The entire process was guided by Dr. Gindel from the Weizmann Institute. I still have the article that was published about it in Maariv.
Other families from Tunisia immigrated with us, and I had several peers my age: Ayah and Shimon Damari, Mundo Besmot, Nisan Damari, Zalman Buchnik (of blessed memory), and others whose names I may have forgotten - my apologies.
We attended kindergarten together, then continued to the regional elementary school in Tel Mond under the principalship of Ruth Gersten.
I vividly remember the initial feelings of alienation, the language barrier, and the daily “escapes” from kindergarten back home.
Leah the teacher and Gila Carmi did their best to help us adjust, and fortunately, that difficult transition period didn’t last long. By the time we reached first grade, we were smiling and fluent in Hebrew - like most young children who pick up the language quickly.
That transition was sweetened by our teacher, Bracha, whom I remember to this day: her floral cloche skirt, white blouse, and a wide red belt. I adored her, and that love likely helped me learn to read quickly and enjoy school.
During those first days of first grade, she took it upon herself to “Hebraize” our “diaspora names.”
I recall very clearly her approaching me and saying, “Maggie isn’t a Hebrew name. What would you like to be called? Vered? Shoshana? Malka?”
If the teacher said Maggie wasn’t a proper Hebrew name, then surely it must not only be foreign, but also ugly - or so I thought. I picked a name from the list she offered.
She did the same with other children whose names were deemed “un-Israeli.”
When I got home, I told my parents that from now on, my name in Israel would no longer be Maggie.
They didn’t object or go to the school, but they continued calling me Maggie at home.
Incidentally, I resumed using my original name in 11th grade.
Strangely enough, I don’t harbor any resentment toward that teacher. But as an educational counselor today, I am acutely aware of this issue, and in the school where I work, I ensure that no immigrant child is ever forced to change their name - a lesson we should have learned long ago.
I lived in Moshav Mishmeret through the end of my military service.
That period shaped who I am.
I have no memories of being treated differently because we were from Tunisia.
I had good friends from all backgrounds. Our origins were never discussed.
I wasn’t exposed to the transit camp experience or what has come to be called “Second Israel.”
My parents were hardworking and instilled in us the importance of learning and personal responsibility.
Their view was that the state owed you nothing - you owed yourself and your country everything.
Only when I left home to study at Ben-Gurion University in Be’er Sheva - where I now live - did I begin to learn about the broader immigrant experience, the ma’abarot, and the divides in Israeli society.
To this day, I consider myself lucky that my childhood and adolescence were spent in Moshav Mishmeret - and above all, that I was raised by parents who understood what was right and how a person should pave their own path in life.
My father passed away in 1981 and is buried in the cemetery at Ein Vered, near Tel Mond. He remained deeply connected to the land and to the moshav throughout his life.
After his passing, my mother moved to Be’er Sheva, where my sister and I lived. She passed away in 1989 - a woman of great inner strength, grace, and wisdom.
Let this testimony be a tribute to my parents’ courage in building a new life in a new country, embracing an unfamiliar way of life with dedication, faith, and values.
Moshav Mishmeret was - and I hope still is - a good place to grow up.
- Written by Maggie Bendik (née Samedja).
Interview and Documentation by Orna Rozhitsky-Hadas, from “Shabashavat Lev HaSharon,” Issue 15
I spoke with three founding members - Chaim Shani, Aliza Friedman, and Yehuda Ovadia - to learn about the early days of Moshav Mishmeret.
The core group of Mishmeret was established in August 1946 by the Moshav Movement. It was composed primarily of veterans of the British Army who had served as port workers in North Africa, along with several other members from Kfar Vitkin. The name “Mishmeret” (literally, “Guard Duty”) was chosen in honor of the Jewish labor shifts that had once been organized to secure employment in the citrus groves of the Sharon region.
The moshav was founded within Reiskin Orchard, a 348-dunam grove planted by a Belgian Jew and later purchased by the Jewish Agency. The orchard was managed by Yakhin Hakla’it (an agricultural corporation), and the early settlers of Mishmeret worked there as hired laborers.
Within the orchard’s four-dunam central yard stood a well and a packing house. Around these, the first settlers — approximately 20 individuals, most of them single — erected tents and wooden huts. The single men lived in tents, while families shared a large barrack that had been partitioned into eight rooms by makeshift walls. The walls had holes in them that residents did their best to plug. One night, the young Friedman family heard a rustling sound coming from the wall they shared with the Afodi family. Aliza Friedman spotted a small finger poking through a hole in the partition, followed by a gleaming eye and a delighted cry: “Zia!” It was the Afodi baby recognizing her. These were truly “intimate conditions.”
Nearby stood the Arab village of Miska.
For protection, the settlers received Italian rifles from the British authorities. With wages earned from their agricultural work, they purchased a Bren machine gun and four Sten submachine guns from the Haganah for 1,000 Israeli lira — a large sum at the time. The weapons were hidden in a silik (clandestine arms cache) and retrieved on the day of Israel’s declaration of independence.
On the eve of the War of Independence, as the security situation deteriorated, the settlers relocated to the southeastern area of Moshav Herut, bringing with them their tents and barracks. Some women and children were housed in local homes, while the men continued to tend the orchard or joined the IDF.
Construction of the first 30 permanent homes in Mishmeret began in 1949, and the first residents moved in by 1951. Each homestead included approximately 30 dunams - 25–30 dunams adjacent to the home and the rest in a shared orchard that was eventually divided among the families.
Each farming unit received three irrigation lines, one cow, a Cypriot donkey or half-ownership of a horse. In the mid-1950's, another group joined the moshav — 35 new immigrants and demobilized soldiers. The following year, immigrants from Romania joined, followed by new arrivals from North Africa.
The 1950's were marked by security challenges. Fedayeen infiltrated the moshavim and stole livestock and equipment. Tensions were high, and trigger fingers were itchy.
To protect their cows, the farmers began penning them together in a shared enclosure, guarded at night by “Old Waller.” One night, Waller accidentally shot a cow that “didn’t know the password.”
Guard duty was constant. In addition to Waller, the men of the moshav patrolled each night. One night, suspicious noises were heard in the yard of the Friedman family. Jacques and Aliza Friedman woke their children and told them to hide. Peering through the window, they saw a white figure darting from tree to tree. Just before opening fire, they realized it was their neighbor Cooper’s white goat.
Another time, a former partisan saw a figure creeping beside him and fired — only to discover he had shot at his own shadow.
On yet another occasion, a couple who went outside at night to tend to their garden — still under construction — were mistakenly shot by the guards. The woman was seriously wounded in the head and hospitalized at Beilinson Hospital for a long period.
In the early years, Mishmeret had only one truck, driven by Chaim Shani. Many children were born during this time, and Chaim would drive expectant mothers to the maternity ward in Hadera. Ilana Rothman and Tamar Maimon each rode with him three times and returned each time with a baby boy. On the fourth trip, they requested a different driver — “Because with Chaim, you only get boys!” That time, both gave birth to daughters.
The truck also served as weekly transport to the cinema in Petah Tikva, where residents watched films like Gone with the Wind, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Bridge on the River Kwai.
One night after a movie, the group was freezing from the cold. Chaim jokingly pretended the truck had broken down, asking everyone to get out and push. Once they’d warmed up, he restarted the engine and they continued home.
Veteran residents recall with fondness the community spirit of those early years - new mothers returning home to find their homes cleaned by neighbors, home-cooked meals and baby clothes delivered, childcare shared among families.
Celebrations - brit milah, bar mitzvahs, weddings - were communal affairs, with each household contributing food. Holidays were marked by shared events, group singing, and a strong sense of mutual support.
Today, approximately 75 senior citizens live in Mishmeret. They participate in extensive activities — some organized by themselves, others by the regional council. However, many express a sense of disconnect from the younger generation, especially in light of the high turnover of families in recent decades.
Members of the next generation — Yossi Kaplan, Ilan Greenpfeter, and Moshe Farid — shared their own childhood memories:
In the early years, the moshav had no electricity. Life was lit by kerosene lamps. Gradually, homes were connected to the electric grid. The Farid family owned a large radio even before that and would carry it to the Antipov home, where the entire village would gather to hear “the electronic miracle.”
After school, the children helped their parents with farming chores. The most dreaded task was watering the orchard by hand — a job that took hours.
Students attended school in Tel Mond and returned home at noon by transport. Older students, whose classes ended later, had to walk home. Occasionally, they’d hitch a ride with a father from Moshav Herut, who would come with a horse-drawn cart to pick up his daughter.
Where the moshav’s secretariat now stands was once a large sandlot where children played soccer.
During the Tishrei holidays, after synagogue services, the children would go to the orchards and stage mock “battles” with citrus fruits as ammunition.
They loved sneaking into the irrigation pool to swim — only to be chased and punished by the orchard supervisor.
On Saturdays, families would travel together in David Rozenberg’s truck to the beach at Kfar Netter. Mothers brought baskets full of food, and the picnic would stretch out along the seashore.
As teenagers, they gathered in the moshav’s youth club to dance to ballroom music from Menachem Maimon’s gramophone.
They also traveled by tractor to the youth club in Beit Yechiel, and later — when they were older — drove in Arik Rothman’s Susita to the “Bar Oriyan” discotheque in Netanya.
Source: Orna Rozhitsky-Hadas, “Spotlight on Mishmeret,” published in Shabashavat Lev HaSharon, Issue 15.