"Be at Ben Gurion Airport at 6 o'clock p.m. at the arrival entrance on the left side of the 'fountain' near the cell phone rental outlet, between the Steimatzky bookstore and something else," the concise written instructions said.  Prudently, I arrived some four hours earlier.  What if the Steimatzky bookstore and something else had moved or something?  I didn't want to take the chance, wandering like our ancestors did for forty years, lost in the enormity of Ben Gurion airport.  I kept looking, trying to locate some other Sar-El volunteers but how can I tell apart a Sar-El volunteer from the flowing, constantly moving masses of air travelers?   

"Excuse me," I timidly ask a mustachioed fellow, "are you a Sar-El volunteer?"  He mumbled something, I think in Russian, and moved away.  I don't scare easily.  As a child in Eastern Europe, I went through a world war and a holocaust, but here, without a word of Hebrew, I felt lost, vulnerable.  

And suddenly there she was!  Our Sar-El leader and saviour, Pamela Lazarus.  How can I describe her?  Well, take a measure of organizing skill, add some no-nonsense kind of authority, a pinch of warmth, another pinch of friendliness and the energy of say, the combination of a volcanic eruption plus that of a few nuclear reactors' output, and you got Pamela Lazarus. 

And then, as though pulled by some magnetic force, they came the gathering of the tribes, streams of Sar El volunteers from every one of our ancient Biblical tribes: the vociferous American tribe, the equally boisterous Australian tribe, followed by the somewhat quieter Canadian, New  Zealander, Argentinean, British, Dutch and Danish tribes.  I believe that I, the sole Romanian volunteer, was representing the last lost tribe.  Shyly, hesitantly eyeing one another, we introduced ourselves somewhat awkwardly, as strangers often do.  Until Pamela took over, and like magic, we became a group united by a common bond and purpose: to volunteer and do whatever is necessary for Israel.  It felt good.  

From many tribes, we once again became one tribe, eager to begin the work we came to do.  Army buses took us to our respective assigned destinations.  I landed at an army base somewhere in Northern Israel.  The awaiting accommodations consisted of a number of rooms, ladies' and gents' washrooms, a moadona kind of social club, featuring a TV set, books, games, a large fridge (dairy only), an electric kettle for tea and coffee, and an endless supply of cookies and other goodies, all surrounding an open rectangular courtyard featuring covered pergolas, picnic type long tables and benches designed for after work social get-togethers.   

I shared a room with two other volunteers, a pair of New-Yorkers, retired school teachers, both experienced veteran volunteers (their third time, I believe).  "Do you snore?" one asked me point blank.  "Only when I sleep," I said.  He didn't seem reassured, but everything turned out OK: all three of us snored. 

The following morning, our guides the madrichot, two delightful 18 year old soldier girls, escorted us to be fitted with army uniforms.  I'm using here the term "fitted" rather loosely.  The problem was that the uniforms designed for lanky, slim young 20 year old Israeli soldiers were not capacious enough for the mostly large, well fed, mature bodies of the western volunteers.  However, somehow we all managed to squeeze into our uniforms and looked splendid in them.  We were so impressed and proud of the way we looked that we kept saluting one another.  From there, we marched in self-organized formation to the mess hall for lunch with the real soldiers who seemed somewhat amused at our newly acquired "military" reincarnation. 

The food was great.  Long, self-service buffet style tables featuring numerous trays heaped with every kind of salad known to man, followed by more trays of cooked potatoes, rice, pastas, and at the very end, a choice of three different meat dishes to choose from, plus all kinds of fruits, to be taken with us as we exited.  For the first time, I understood what Napoleon meant by "An army marches on its stomach."  And some of our volunteers sure had rather large, impressive stomachs to march on.  

Then we worked.  I mean we really worked.  We earned our lunch.  And at the end of the day, I never felt better in my entire life.  Still, there was more to it than just a day's work.  The evening were full of social and cultural activities and of course our own self-originated interesting and most enjoyable conversations.  I don't know whether it was a coincidence or not, but among our volunteer group, both men and women, I found some of the smartest people I ever met.  We also went on weekly daytime trips to various parts of Israel. 

At the end of the three weeks of volunteering, the tribes parted to return to where they came from.  But only in the physical sense.  A large chunk of their hearts and spirit remained in Israel.  And something of Israel stayed with them forever.  Some will return to volunteer again.  Some will make aliyah if not them, their children.  For in Israel, they found the only kind of love, feelings of well being and self-fulfillment freely given and freely received.  No one leaves Israel quite the way he came there is something on which one cannot quite put a finger here and which cannot really be described something that can only be felt.  I'm certain that some day the international tribes of volunteers or their offspring will be back, perhaps permanently, for Israel is claiming that part of us that always belonged to Israel.