The Beekeeper – Herzliya, 2044

Do you remember what it felt like the first time you were stung by a bee? The sharp, searing pain, a jolt of panic, and then, a few seconds later, a sense of relief when you realize it still hurts, but the pain isn’t that bad, and you can handle it. 

That’s what being in Israel in 2044 felt like.

Meira didn’t talk about it for a long time, but these days, since passing 80, she talks her memories with close friends.

When Meira was a child, her parents had told her that Israel was the chosen land. Her dad was a beekeeper in New Jersey. The chosen land needed bees, so her family moved to Israel shortly after her birth.

A half a lifetime later, she found herself on a kibbutzum in Central Israel on September 9th, 2044. She remembered that morning clearly. The air was thick with the scent of old sweat as she cleaned her beekeeper’s helmet. Then she carefully removed the cover from the master beehive, her gloved hands trembling slightly. She observed the bees for a moment, and put the cover back. The sound of the cover echoed in the quiet room underground.

Footsteps clunked down the stairs. Ben appeared, his face flushed and sweaty. “What were you thinking, bringing a beehive into a bunker?“ he asked, his voice tinged with frustration.

“Bees go into hibernation. And I didn’t think we would be stuck down here for six months,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ben took off his PPE, filling the stuffy bunker with the smell of the detergent someone had washed him off with outside.

“There are ten army checkpoints between here and the coast,” he said, his voice heavy with concern.

“I have a route —“

“I have a better one.” Ben explained his plan. She never fully understood why he tried so hard to help her.

They snuck off during the morning farm work. Ben was one of the few trusted with keys to the truck. Meira loaded her beehive onto the back.

Ben’s eyes were on their woodbox. “Sometimes I envy them. Their purpose is so clear, so simple.”

“You mean in contrast with our purpose?” 

Ben grimaced, and looked out over the rows of gnarled olive trees, centuries old, yet unsafe to eat. “Get in,” he said, and they began driving the dusty road toward the coast. As promised, they took unexpected turns, veered down quiet farm lanes, and made rapid progress unseen by anyone.

As they passed an empty village, just beyond an abandoned Papa John’s restaurant, they were confronted with an IDF truck parked in the road, blocking their path. A young soldier looked up from an electronic device and pointed at their vehicle. Another readied a heavy machine gun. The soldiers wore olive-green uniforms, and their eyes scanned their every move. Meira’s heart raced as she met their gaze.

The leader of the group approached their truck and ordered them to get out. Ben and Meira didn’t have any weapon except their beehive.

“Why are you avoiding IDF checkpoints?” the soldier asked, his eyes narrowing.

“What makes you think that?” Ben shrugged. 

“Do you think we are stupid? Drones. What is your purpose?”

Ben’s face twitched. He appeared ready to lunge for the soldier’s gun.

Meira pushed in front. “We are scientists, distributing Israeli bees to bring life to the promised land,” she said, her voice steady. She pointed at the beehive in the back of the truck.

The soldier nodded. She put on her beekeeper’s helmet and took the box down from the truck.

As she was about to open the cover, “Enough,” the soldier declared. With Ben and Meira’s kibbutzum accents, they were obviously not outsiders.

She saw the soldier’s eyes linger on her bag, holding her US passport. He had undoubtedly searched countless people before. He could simply tear her passport to shreds and send her back to her bunker to defend the holy land. In a nation under martial law, no one could stop him.

A resigned look came over his face. “Farewell,” he said, and ordered his men to pack up their military equipment.

After leaving the Papa John’s checkpoint, they hastened their pace. They were out of range of Palestinian drones as they approached the coast. She hadn’t felt this safe in months. She imagined she could smell the scent of the ocean, but all she could smell was her PPE suit.

When they saw the distant blue of the ocean, Ben’s mood lifted. He looked at her. “Look at that!” He said. “Everything my grandfather said became true. The population growth of our enemies. The democratization of technology. Who would have imagined what took the best Jewish scientist and billions of American dollars to produce in Los Alamos would be made by teenagers in a Beirut university lab?” 

She had heard warnings for years about AI taking over the world. None about AI helping teenagers manufacture nuclear weapons.

The road became busier as they neared Herzliya. No one worried any more about two young people in an agricultural truck. Ben followed his GPS to the port. The IDF had set up yet another checkpoint at the port, and were checking passports at its entrance. They both knew, for Ben, the punishment for trying to flee Israel without a foreign passport would be swift. In wartime, young men, no matter how pacifist, were not allowed to desert their nation.

Ben parked the truck, and they got out. With the bow of the American navy vessel in the distance, they hugged. Some things were better left unsaid. She gave him a glimpse of a smile, picked up her beehive, and turned around.

Under the noses and likely bribes of the outsiders, the IDF soldiers and the Population Authority officials politely checked her passport and let her pass. Boarding the American vessel, she was greeted with warm smiles and inquisitive gazes at the wooden box she was carrying.

“What’s that you are carrying?” someone asked, their voice filled with curiosity.

“A beehive,” she replied.

“Where are you going?” another voice asked.

“Glassboro, New Jersey.”

“There are already plenty of bees in New Jersey,” someone remarked.

“These ones are special.” They had protected her.

That night on the boat, when all was quiet and everything was still, outside the low rumble of the ship’s engine, Meira strolled to the stern gunwale and looked back toward her adopted homeland. With two hands, she lifted the beehive, and the long dead bees it contained, over the side and let go. Their tiny bodies disappeared into the dark, contaminated waters of the Mediterranean. There would be new bees to keep in Glassboro.