Most Israelis would be happy to swap August for any other month of the year. In August, parents are driving themselves crazy trying to keep their children busy and entertained. Children who were perfectly happy to amuse themselves in July, relaxing after the school year and enjoying summer activities, are now complaining, "I'm bored!" and spending most of their time teasing their siblings, watching movies and playing on the computer. Employers in all sectors of the economy call this the "slow season" because workers are on vacation, off taking care of their children or are simply infected by the  end of the summer.
Israelis who take their vacations in Israel face many challenges.

In August in a tiny, crowded country there is almost no place of refuge from the hordes of people who are also searching unsuccessfully for a quiet corner in which to relax. Furthermore, vacationers have to pay prices that are much higher than what they would pay for equivalent style of vacations in other places in the world.

In August it is difficult not to be jealous of people who live in larger countries with open borders, who can go on vacation for a reasonable cost and WITHOUT having to use an airport.

The weather in August is another challenge. Heat waves are frequent, and the cool breezes that herald the arrival of autumn are still not expected for another month or two. And the biggest reminder of the long summer are the colors of the landscape. Israel in August is dusty brown and yellow, with perhaps here and there a touch of light green. It is as if an imaginary artist, while painting Israel's summer landscape, had run out of paints except for a few faded and dry colors. Israel in August is a dry, dusty place in desperate need of refreshment and renewal.

One weekday morning in early August I sent out for a brisk walk between Hoshaya and Moshav Tzipori. Moshav Tzipori borders with Tzipori National Park where, almost 2,000 years ago, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi wrote the Mishnah. I set out early, before sunrise and before the air became hot and humid. The morning was still fresh as the birds chirped a greeting to the new day.

When I had climbed up from the small valley that separates Hoshaya and Tzipori and was approaching the gate of the moshav, I noticed two men. They were standing about 50 yards apart with their backs to me, each one holding a long stick at the end of which was a small tin can. Their attention was focused on picking sabra fruits from the green hedge of sabra plants, standing like a natural wall on both sides of the narrow road that leads from Hoshaya to Tzipori. Skillfully pushing the little tin can beneath the yellow-red fruit, they twisted the sabra off the cactus with one half turn and then deposited the fruit into a large collection bucket. Early morning is the best time to pick sabras. It is still cool, and there is no wind to blow the tiny little thorns off the sabra plants and into exposed parts of the body.

The sabra is not exactly the most popular fruit in Israel. It is difficult to pick, it scatters small thorns in every direction, and because of its hard seeds it causes constipation. Nevertheless, native-born Israelis are referred to as "Sabras" because they are prickly and rough on the outside, but soft and sweet inside.

Watching the two men pick sabras in August reminded me of my childhood. In summer we would hike from the kibbutz to the abandoned Arab village of Hosha near the town of Shfar'am, large plastic buckets in our hands, to pick the figs, pomegranates and sabras that grew among the houses that were abandoned by their inhabitants after they fled in 1948.

I wondered who owned those sabras between Hoshaya and Tzipori, and whether the two men were supposed to be picking them. I went up to the older man and asked him, "Whose sabras are those?" He turned to me with a mix of defiance and apprehension. "This is public land, they don't belong to anyone," he said before returning to his work with great concentration. I decided to try my luck with his younger companion.

I approached him and wished him good morning, then asked, "Whose sabras are these?" His answer was similar. "No-one's. The land's." I asked permission to photograph him, and he refused. I asked again, promising to photograph him from behind so his face would not be seen, but only the picking would be documented. This time he agreed. I photographed him and  returned home. The sun had already begun to rise in the east and was getting in my eyes.

As I walked briskly I remembered the story our friend R. from Moshav Tzipori once told us.  R. and her husband built their house there about 25 years ago, when the moshav was still struggling and before the booming housing market in the north of Israel turned it into an upscale community. R.'s family is like a walking advertisement for the Jewish Agency. The parents, both of whom are graduates of prestigious American universities, made aliya and settled in the Galilee. Their children (three sons and one daughter) are all officers in the IDF, and two of them are combat pilots.

On the land that the couple purchased are rows of sabra cactuses. One day, R. and her husband noticed several Arab men on their property picking the sabras. When they asked them why they were trespassing, the Arab pickers told them, "This is our land. We are from Safouriya. The sabras have belonged to our family forever." As they continued to talk, R. and her husband learned that they were the descendants of residents of the Arab village of Safouriya, a large Arab community that at one point in its long history had been the largest Arab settlement in the Galilee.

The inhabitants of Safouriya had abandoned their village in the summer of 1948, during the War of Independence. In 1949, Moshav Tzipori was established in its place, on the ruins of the village of Safouriya and next to Tzipori, the ancient Jewish settlement of the Mishnaic period. Many former inhabitants of the abandoned village of Safouriya have lived since that time in Nazareth, near Moshav Tzipori, and they still consider it to be their land, albeit temporarily under Jewish occupation.

Since they consider the lands and the fruit orchards of Moshav Tzipori to belong to them, they see nothing wrong with picking the sabras there. In fact, R. told me that she had told them that they could pick the fruit, but should just let her know ahead of time when they were coming. "There's enough for all of us," she told them. "They refused point-blank. "This is our land, we inherited it, and we will absolutely not let you know ahead of time."

I recently went with my family to see the protest tents on Rothschild Boulevard in Tel Aviv. I had to see with my own eyes the protests for social justice and try to understand it. I still do not understand it completely nor do many other people. As we walked in the sweaty Tel Aviv air among the tents planted along the Boulevard, I suddenly heard the voice of veteran singer Si Hyman coming from one of the tents. One of her famous songs is "Big Hero" and the words are as relevant today as when they were first written: "Wars no longer happen in summer, even for us it's too hot for hatred."

In August 2011, between one heat wave and the next, between a demonstration and a protest tent, between inhabitants of yesterday and inhabitants of today, between the conflict that was and the conflict that is sure to come, we see that the Israeli experience swings between the two extremes of the sabra - from prickly and hard to soft and sweet.

Sagi Melamed lives with his family in the community of Hoshaya in the Galilee.  He serves as Vice President of External Affairs at the Max Stern Yezreel Valley College, and is the Chief Instructor in the Hoshaya Karate Club.  Sagi received his Masters degree from Harvard University in Middle Eastern Studies with a specialty in Conflict Resolution. He can be contacted at: melamed.sagi@gmail.com.