Though you'll be reading long after I've arrived home, I began writing this Vine column--as I have for the past three years--sitting in the lobby of a kibbutz guest house just outside Jerusalem.

I've had the privilege of bringing college students to Israel every winter for the past 10 years. Though there are many sites at which I could recite the tour guide's schpiel verbatim--the cisterns on Masada, the blue doors of Safed and Hezekiah's Water Tunnel in Jerusalem, to name a few--each trip brings me to new places and provides new insight into the lives of the people who live there. This time, these insights came from a day spent in and around bomb shelters in Israel's north.

We began the day at Kibbutz Malkieh where, amid the cow pens, our guide handed us the remains of Ketyusha rockets that had fallen between homes on the kibbutz property in the summer of 2006. On our short walk to the Lebanese border, we stopped in the orchards for the last apples of the season, fresh from the trees. Moments later, as we stood in front of gnarled barbed wire, patrolling Israeli tanks passed in front us, the soldiers shouting greetings as if we were old friends.

Before leaving the kibbutz, we were led to a playground where the youngest kibbutzniks played, and into the children's bomb shelter, a small, concrete room painted with colorful star- fish and seahorses. There we watched a home video of the veteran members harvesting the plum crop as rockets fell in the surrounding areas. In the 15 or so minutes that we were in this space, we felt hot and cramped; we gulped in the chilly air as we emerged from our momentary confinement.

That there is such a thing as a children's bomb shelter is jarring to an American sensibility. That the elders of the community would risk life to ensure livelihood must seem preposterous to those who wouldn't ride Metro in the months after September 11 or go to a gas station during the sniper attacks of a few years back. These are the realities of everyday existence in Northern Israel. I'm not sure that I would say it's heroic to be living in these circumstances, but it's certainly extraordinary.

We ended the day in another bomb shelter with a lecture from American-born Elliott Chodoff, a military strategist. Though his presentation was fascinating--he spoke about the ways in which Israel had gone wrong in a number of her recent military missions--I found my mind wandering from his talk to my surroundings. We were staying in the best hotel in Safed and this bomb shelter was appointed with wall-to-wall carpeting, lamps and windows overlooking a courtyard that, if necessary, could be shuttered in steel. Bomb shelters are such a normative part of Israeli life that this room was often used as program space for groups meeting at the hotel. Over the course of many years, I have attended lectures, led services, learned various card games and even celebrated New Year's Eve inside this shelter.

Perhaps the most satisfying part of the day was the few hours we spent painting a bomb shelter in the town of Hazor Glilit. These shelters sit in the middle of many towns, serving as a sobering reminder of the fragile security near Israel's borders. Until recently, many sat empty, slowly deteriorating inside and out, a blight on the neighborhoods they are meant to protect. This particular shelter has been turned into a beit midrash, a house of study. The walls are lined with books; the room is crammed with mismatched chairs and tables. One wonders where the people might sit comfortably were they in need of shelter.

As we approached, each student was given a paint brush. Some were instructed to give the drab, gray, cinderblock walls a shiny tan base coat. Others, following the instructions of a local artist, filled in the color on a sketch of a cityscape he had drawn. At first, the general lack of skill employed by these students of political science and history worried me. Soon, their enthusiasm and care brought the mural to life.

Though the students had fun, they were doubtful as to the impact of their work.

When we walked toward our bus late in the afternoon, a group of young girls walked by on their way home from school. As they approached the mural they giggled and gasped and pointed, shouting in Hebrew, "Azeh yafeh!" or "How beautiful!"

As we processed the day's events, this is what the students remembered. Their work was not as treacherous as harvesting crops while bombs fell, nor was it as critical as military intelligence, but it had brought light to the eyes of a few schoolchildren and perhaps would bring more joy as other members of the community walked past.

I think often of my connection to Israel. I've made many friends there. I have my favorite falafel stand and my favorite jewelry store. I love that it's possible to walk down the same streets as the rabbis who wrote the Mishnah. But I often feel removed from the everyday life of modern Israelis. This shelter gives me a connection. A small connection. I've also been wearing the new tallit I purchased while there.

In this, the year that we celebrate the 60th year since Israel's birth, it's my hope that each of us finds a way to connect.