Elsewhere, Perhaps

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You see before you the kibbutz of Metsudat Ram:

Its buildings are laid out in strict symmetry at one end of the green valley. The tangled foliage of the trees does not break up the settlement's severe lines, but merely softens them, and adds a dimension of weightiness.

The buildings are whitewashed, and most of them are topped with bright red roofs. This color scheme contrasts sharply with that of the mountain range, which completely blocks the view to the east, and at the foot of which the kibbutz lies spread. The mountains are bare and rocky, cut by zigzagging ravines. With the sun's progress their own shadows spill gradually down these folds, as if the mountains are trying to relieve their desolation with this melancholy shadow play.

Along the lower terraces on the slope stretches the border between our land and that of her enemies.

This border, prominently marked on the maps with a thick green line, is not visible to the observer, since it does not correspond to the natural boundary between the lush green valley and the bleak, bare mountains. The soil of Israel overflows the limits of the valley and spreads up the lower slopes toward the barren heights. So the eye and the mind — or, more precisely, geology and politics — come to be at odds with one another. The kibbutz itself stands some two miles from the international frontier. We cannot define the distance more precisely without entering into the bloodstained controversy over the exact location of this line.

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