Israel was founded on an idealistic community structure. From the seeds of socialism, Jews from predominantly Russia and Poland sought a re-creation of the Jewish identity as strong pioneers on kibbutzes. Kibbutzes were places where sabras were fostered and women found equality as their physical labor gained value. But after the 1973 War, the kibbutzes quickly fell out of favor and many fell apart without government support.
Outside of Israel, and even within the state, the word kibbutz brings to mind factories and decay instead of glorious agricultural strongholds. Kibbutzes followed a similar evolutionary path as did the state itself. Both began as a conceptual ideal, in search of a better way of living, but their current state of being leaves many feeling disenchanted and frustrated.
During the past nine months, I have lived in three separate intentional communities, and I have visited many more. I was most inspired by Neot Smadar, a self-sustaining spiritual community that has become a strange oasis in the Arabah dessert. From their expansive orchards, they produce dates, olives, and juices. For me, it represents the epitome of Jewish strength and obstinacy, but not pragmatism per se. Given that Neot Smadar is located in the dessert, it requires a very water-intensive system. They must also deal with the intense heat during the summer months and isolation from main urban centers. An army base operates next to the kibbutz, and the tanks shatter the silence and rattle homes throughout the day. In Israel, one is always reminded of the presence of conflict.
Perhaps more intriguing for me is the social structure of this community. The kibbutz was founded based on a spiritual ethos, yet not an essentially Jewish one. Approximately 100 families live there. In order to foster detachment, they rotate houses every 2 years. They eat of all of their meals in silent contemplation, while the children eat in a separate building. Shabbat is a time of celebration, when children return home from the army and university, and the silence is broken.
I am currently living in an intentional yet transitional community on an education farm in Modi’in. Through a MASA program, I lived amongst eight strangers from America for 5 months. Afterward, I sought out another farm in Thailand where I rested my weary head for a month. And now I am back on the farm, yet the program has shifted and there is a new community in place; I watch them struggle with the same issues that I once faced.
All of these experiences, have led me to a constant contemplation about intentional communities. In general, I am still passionate about what they strive to achieve. In every community, there will be squabbles and tension over all aspects of daily life. Ultimately, they are based on the sharing of resources–physical, mental and financial–in order to maintain a self-sustaining community. There will be times, where one requires more personal space, a day when a member is tired or sick. During these times, another member will pick up the slack.
There is a simple beauty in that fact. Communities exist to offer us strength, in times where we simply cannot or choose to not function alone.
