By John P. Brackin

The most memorable thing about the Golan Heights, at least as I remember it, was the fish dinner I received at a small kibbutz that specialized in catering to tourists. I was traveling en masse, on another family-organized vacation, with a group of work associates, extended families, and a handful of religious leaders—deacons and whatnot that were traveling with us to provide additional religious commentary. The common thread was undoubtedly our mutual interest in the Holy Land—specifically, our collective interest in the Christian aspects of Israel’s history—and we made the most of our time, singing hymns and conducting group prayer at nearly every site we saw.
     The land there, in Israel, was much more barren and dry than I had expected—having grown up in the American South, I was accustomed to dense foliage and green pine—and the stark landscapes, even as it was in the middle of winter, took me somewhat by surprise. The food there was often what seemed an attempt to blunt the country’s dry environment, a sort of culinary response to the land’s dry, stark conditions. (December and January are actually two of the country’s wettest months, but that still didn’t change the general feeling of "dryness.")
     Much of the food was coated in olive oil, in the Mediterranean tradition; and there were lots of cool, fresh fruits and juices: oranges, dates, apricots. Vineyards and olive trees abounded. Mushrooms, cool slaws, pitas, peas, and pastries. At one point, our guide, a Palestinian with a taste for fried turkey, mentioned the fact that Israel is known as the land of milk and honey, and the depiction seemed to certainly ring true. For us, and for almost the entirety of the trip, nearly every meal was a feast.
     Before stopping for lunch that day, we drove up to a UN peace-keeping encampment that was situated along the Syrian border. We got out and took pictures of a village that was located just to the other side, then returned to our bus and continued on to the kibbutz. The restaurant was an apparently famous fish restaurant—most famous, I’m sure, for serving busloads of Americans—and it was situated in an idyllic, rural setting on the hills above the sea. (The Golan Heights are located just above the Sea of Galilee, on the eastern banks.)
     At that point, I’d never even heard of a kibbutz, so I was somewhat fascinated by the concept. Our guide described it in detail: the kids at work, the sense of community, the self-run business. Apparently, as I found out, everyone that lived there in the community contributed in some way to the success of the group—the restaurant, for example, was run entirely by the kibbutz’s residents (in exchange for temporary room and board). It was really quite an interesting lunch, and the newness of the environment made for a wholly novel experience. The fish itself, however, was pretty forgettable.