In the winter of 2018, the delicious milk cap mushrooms (Lactarius deliciosus) appeared late in the season. Dr. Ariel Appel, an anthropologist and a foraging guide, set out to look for these golden shadow-dwellers with his friends from Shomrei Hagan (Guardians of the Garden, an organization dedicated to nature education) in the Haifa area. With hand-woven baskets and sharp knives in their pockets, they scattered quietly, tracking signs of moisture and earthy scents. Then, a rustle — not a wild boar, as they had feared. It was only Hamudi, a Palestinian working at a nearby construction site, who arrived with a plastic bag and a utility knife to forage as well. Worry turned into a smile, and the smile into a conversation.
Hamudi, too, came here to look for Lactarius deliciosus — he had learned to spot them from his grandfather. He shared that the the Arabic name for the mushroom is Feter e-sinobar (“pinenut mushroom,” فطر الصنوبر), reflecting its symbiotic relationship with the pine tree: the mushroom’s mycelium helps the tree absorb water and minerals, while the tree provides sugars in return. Forests and human society are alike — each individual gives some and takes some; no one is on their own.
‘You Stick to What You Know’
Attempting to map local gathering traditions involves looking into what was gathered by the cultures that developed here over the ages. Appel shares that Druze foragers, for instance, remain loyal to a single species. Safaa Ibrahim, a Druze cook from the northern Golan Heights, says her friends only gather the Buz El-Ejel mushroom (“the calf’s mouth”, بوز العجل), or Volvopluteus gloiocephalus by its scientific name. The profusion of names reveals the gap between folklore-based and scientific knowledge.
Eilabun resident Dr. Ramez Eid, an anthropologist whose research focuses on the relations of the Druze inhabitants of the Carmel area with the state, also describes a practice of restricted gathering. “I used to hunt mushrooms with my grandfather and father as a child, and we only gathered Buz El-Ajals.” The reason, he says, is the natural environment. “We don’t have dense forests, we don’t have Mediterranean scrub — we have olive groves, and there aren’t many species there, so you stick to what you know.”
While the tradition of gathering and using za’atar has been extensively documented in Palestinian literature and culture, there’s little about local mushroom gathering practices. Culinary researcher Dr. Muzna Bishara describes significant differences between regions: “In Lebanon they gathered the kama’ah, which is similar to truffles and common in the Aleppo region of Syria. In Nazareth, freshly picked mushrooms are available for purchase in the markets. The Triangle region has no tradition of mushroom gathering.”
Although mushrooms rarely appear in modern Palestinian cookbooks, they are mentioned in older culinary books, which carefully distinguish between edible and toxic varieties, she adds. Mushrooms have been used in regional gastronomy since antiquity. Traditionally, they were boiled and then served with murri, an ancient local sauce with a deep and concentrated flavor, somewhat reminiscent of soy sauce.
The practice of gathering desert truffles is similarly ancient; it is mentioned in a Talmudic text dated to between the third and sixth centuries CE. An Arabic inscription from the Mamluk sultanate, discovered in Jordan and dated to 1366 CE, describes truffles being gathered by local shepherds, offering a glimpse into the economic and social life of the Bedouins at the time. Today, these mushrooms still hold a place of honor in the Israeli desert: they are harvested every year between January and April, mainly by Bedouins, and sold in the Beer Sheva market and are often bought by cooks with North African heritage.
A New Relationship Between People and Land
Yatir Sade, an expert in wild plant and mushroom foraging, explains how Zionist afforestation policies have shaped the Israeli landscape, and the practices of foraging within it. “The Zionists aspired to shape the local landscape in the image of Europe,” he says. “This is why they planted pine forests, which brought with them a whole new ecosystem, including various types of mushrooms.” Sade is referring to the pine trees planted by the Jewish National Fund (JNF), which were chosen for their rapid adaptation to the climate and their dense forest canopy.
This policy contributed to national development and land conservation while establishing a distinct Zionist landscape. But it was also fraught with historical and political complexities. Some forests were planted on Palestinian lands expropriated after 1948, sparking public criticism and debate. Additionally, when pines are planted in a monoculture system (agriculture based on a single crop over a large area, which harms biodiversity and increases the risk of disease), they can impact the local ecosystem; they acidify the soil, choke native species, and increase the risk of fires.
As a result of pine tree planting, new relationships between people and land were formed. Sade adds: “Immigrants from Eastern Europe, who found this landscape familiar, came equipped with extensive knowledge, but this knowledge was limited to specific species and traditional practices. The local population, on the other hand, gathers a limited number of species. This reflects the dry climate of the region, but also testifies to the erasure of the original local landscape.”
Eid believes that ancient mushroom foraging traditions existed, but as urbanization, modernization, and capitalism distanced local communities from nature, these gradually disappeared, remaining the legacy of a few. While in the past, an intimate connection with the natural environment produced a wealth of knowledge and people hunted mushrooms for food, today foraging is mainly perceived as a family leisure activity.
The fact that pine forests in the Carmel were planted on Druze expropriated lands is also significant. “For the Druze of the Carmel,” Eid explains, “this is a foreign space, imposed on them without their consent.” As nature became severed from tradition, it turned into an alien entity.
Appel, meanwhile, sees the forest as an intimate space where foraging is an unmediated encounter with the world. “Here we get to meet nature as it is, with as few barriers and mediations as possible,” he says, but acknowledges it’s not equally accessible to everyone. “When we venture into the forest, it means we have the time, we have the means, and that no ranger can stop us.” Behind the idyllic roaming and quiet lies a less romantic reality. Not everyone can afford to take a break from everyday life, and not everyone has the knowledge, and sometimes even the confidence, to simply enter the forest and start searching.
Every Year the Mushrooms Behave Differently
Yula Vilozny, chairperson of the Society for Wild Mushrooms in Israel and an amateur forager who conducts foraging tours, offers another explanation for Israel’s limited foraging culture. “Most mushrooms in Israel are allergenic,” she says. Vilozny immigrated to Israel from Russia in the 1970s. “We picked very few species then, compared to the ones I know now,” she says. When she began her research, only two books about mushrooms existed in Hebrew — one by Dalia Levinson and the other by Nissan Binyamini. But in 2014 she discovered Mushrooms in Israel, a dedicated website founded by Olga Godorova, as well as the Facebook community that has formed around it. Over time, she began to organize foraging excursions that grew from dozens to hundreds of participants.
Four years ago, true morels appeared all over the country for two weeks. The year after, however, they were hard to find. “Every year the mushrooms behave differently and tell us a different story,” she says. “We track these changes and keep organized records, and we also collect information from various Facebook groups.”
The organization published a pocket guide for mushroom identification, with 99 photos and names in Hebrew and Latin. Vilozny also initiated a research project for the genetic analysis of wild mushrooms in Israel, in collaboration with the Faculty of Agriculture at the Hebrew University. “Last year we enjoyed an abundance of mushrooms in winter, but this year things are completely different,” she says. “We have an unofficial barometer — the amount of Inocybes. The Inocybe itself is poisonous, but abundant Inocybes means favorable conditions for edible varieties as well. This year we’ve hardly seen any Inocybes, which means it’s a weak season. On the other hand, we’ve come across a few of them in the forest, and this could be an encouraging sign.”
Appel adds: “There’s been a revolution in foraging in the last decade. There were always people who picked mushrooms for personal use or sold them in the market, and they were foraging guides, but today we see a phenomenon of ‘neo-foragers’: people who integrate newly acquired foraging skills into a post-industrial lifestyle. Vibrant social networks, as well as professional workshops and training, created a real community of foraging instructors, who maintain constant dialogue. When this trend was at its peak, you could upload a photo of a mushroom to a Facebook group and get identification within minutes.” And yet, different practices and traditions still exist. Appel recounts that immigrants from Russia continued to forage Boletus in Israel despite different conditions, but this has often ended with a visit to the emergency room.
Vilozny, too, describes a complex dynamic in the Israeli foraging community. “Russian immigrants think they know all mushrooms, but in practice most of them can identify one to three species. They rely on the knowledge they brought with them from Russia, believing that the local mushrooms are exactly the same,” she says. In Russia, foraging was a way of life and an integral part of every forest visit: “In the Soviet Union, we were taught never to go into the forest without a knife,” she adds with a wink.
Indeed, for many immigrants from the former Soviet Union, forest excursions helped preserve something from the world they had left behind. For chef Pasha Chekin of Romano restaurant in Tel Aviv, who immigrated from Moscow at the age of three, foraging with his taciturn father was a treasured time that allowed for intimacy. Chekin shares: “I remember that as soon as winter arrived, we would start waking up early on Saturdays and drive to the forest to pick mushrooms. We usually returned with a basketful of Suillus granulatus. When we got home, my father wouldn’t bother too much in the kitchen — he would just put potatoes and mushrooms in a pan and let the magic happen.”
From a Well-Kept Secret to Prestigious Restaurants
It was a deep connection to nature that led Avi Shalev, one of the pioneers of Israel’s beer industry and co-founder of Tel Aviv’s White Rabbit brewery, to mushroom foraging. His father used to take him to gather mushrooms in the fields of the kibbutz — Volvopluteus gloiocephalus, Lepista nuda, and Pleurotus eryngii (king trumpet mushrooms). These experiences were more than a hobby — they signified freedom, connection, and meaning.
Back then, mushrooms were a well-kept secret, waiting to be discovered by knowledgeable foragers. Today they’ve become a staple of high-end cuisine, starring on the plates of well-known chefs. “The first time we found large quantities of morels, I was shocked,” says Shalev. “I couldn’t believe they actually grow here in Israel.”
Overfilled with excitement, he and his friends took their treasure to chef Ezra Kedem. “You could see in his eyes that he would do anything for these mushrooms,” he recounts. The surprising discovery quickly found its way to Israel’s most prestigious kitchens — HaAchim, Cucina Hess 4, Claro, and chef Eyal Shani’s restaurants — which introduced wild mushrooms to a wider public. But Shalev remains faithful to the earth. “I never accept money in return for mushrooms,” he says. “I preferred a good meal, one that reminds me why I do this.”
‘Mushrooms Always Find a Way’
Despite their popularity, edible mushrooms are becoming increasingly scarce in JNF forests. Mycotourism (paying for a foraging experience often while traveling) is growing in popularity. In Israel, too, the increase in wild mushroom foraging alongside climate change is putting pressure on the environment. Shalev warns of the impact of commercial foraging, but also shares an encouraging message. One day, he recounts, he found morels growing in his own garden, right by the drainage of his washing machine. “Apparently spores from the forest stuck to some of my clothes, reached the washing machine and then the palm tree, whose fruits are rich in sugar and fat,” he explains with a smile. “They always find a way.”
Appel perceives the ethics of foraging as an unwritten contract between people and nature. To him, our responsibility toward the forest and the community is no less important than the joy of finding a rare mushroom. In foragers’ Facebook groups, he notes, ethical discussion takes center stage — what’s an appropriate amount to gather, how to protect the environment, and how to leave enough for future generations. “When you forage with a basket,” he explains, “you disperse spores as you move, and that’s part of the story — to let nature continue doing its work.”
In an era when everything seems to be disintegrating — politics, identity, society, law, climate — mushroom foraging emerges in Israel as a form of quiet resistance. Anthropologist Anna Tsing calls this a vital “art of living.” In her 2015 book “The Mushroom at the End of the World,” Tsing follows the tradition of foraging for matsutake mushrooms — a coveted Japanese delicacy that grows precisely in landscapes that were wounded or worn thin by the wheels of global capitalism.
They say that after the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, the first thing that grew from the burnt soil was matsutake mushrooms, a symbol of the power of nature. Tsing sees this as a sign of life which insists on flourishing among the ruins, despite everything.
Here too, amid the ruins and destruction, mushroom foraging may offer us a possibility to live within our environment. The forest and groves continue to tell their story, and ours, too — if we are willing to listen.