In 1984, I spent a few months in Israel with my older brother, the then future but now former prime minister of this country. Our summer started as volunteers on a kibbutz in the north, in a thumb of land poking out between Lebanon and the Golan Heights, on the banks of the Jordan river.
On arrival we were issued with canvas desert boots, shown beds in corrugated sheet-roofed huts, and then told to head to the work coordinator’s office to be assigned our jobs.
