Israel: On The Kibbutz
By Tomi Laine Clark

“The teelim fall everyday here,” he says, “but they don’t always hit something.” Rueven is referring to the missiles launched from Gaza into the neighboring areas of Israel. Derot is the biggest city the Palestinians can hit from where they launch, and it gets hit frequently. Half the city is destroyed and currently evacuated due to the constant attacks. Near Derot, there are several kibbutzim that receive what they call “friendly greetings from their neighbors.” They maintain a jovial attitude about their situation despite the uncertainty that plagues them daily. The kibbutz was, to me, the symbol of Israel; so on my first visit to the country, I asked my husband, a native Israeli, to arrange a visit.

Rueven, his uncle, picked us up at the train station in Ashquelon and took us to his home, Kibbutz Ziqim. The roads there were dusty and dry, and we were greeted at the entrance by a guard house and a fenced gate.

“Don’t worry; it’s just a formality,” Rueven said.  

Inside, the scene was much different. Not a single house was fenced; not a single dog was tied up or caged; and not a single child was mindful of the road. The houses were arranged in a large circle facing the center of the compound where a building he referred to as 'the children's house' stood.

In Kibbutz Ziqim children are raised as much collectively as by their biological parents. At age six children leave their parents’ house and go to live in the children’s house. While their parents still get to see them virtually anytime they want, they are encouraged not to develop too strong a sense of individuality. It prepares them for a kibbutz mentality where each person must support the whole, and individual identity takes the back seat.

As our tour of the kibbutz begins, Reuven points to a field between his house and the children’s house. He explains that this was where all the children were playing several months ago when the field was stuck with a missile. Amazingly, no one was hurt. Doors were blown off the hinges of neighboring houses, but miraculously the children all escaped unharmed. In the aftermath, an alarm system was installed. The system is based on radar, so when an incoming projectile enters the area, a mechanical voice announces over a loudspeaker, "shahar adom" meaning “red horizon.” Residents were instructed to take cover upon hearing this, but some immediately began to ask, where?

A few old bomb shelters were scattered around the kibbutz, but the warning system often gave people as little as 15 seconds to find shelter. Ultimately bomb shelters were installed in every house. These shelters conveniently added an extra room that most families now use as a guest bedroom.

Rueven talked continuously as we walked along the gravel road that runs around the perimeter of the kibbutz, and soon we arrived at our next stop: pinat hei.  Literally translated, it means “life corner,” but the meaning is actually closer to “animal corner.” In the U.S. it would be called a petting zoo. Animal corners are very common in Israel and can be found in many parks and kibbutzim. The 'animal corner' at Ziqim housed many different types of animals, but had fallen into a general state of disrepair.  Rueven explained that in this information age not even kibbutznik children are as interested in animals and the outdoors as they used to be.

Kibbutz Ziqim supports its residents with a mattress factory and a dairy.  At this dairy, cows were divided into groups, and each group took its turn at each of the four stations every day, rotating between resting, showering, milking, and eating. The cows shuffled contentedly between each station, seeming especially eager to get milked. When the shower was turned off, the cows would form a line on the ramp to the circular milking platform; and as the platform revolved, a new space would open up; and the next heifer would take her place. An apparatus was attached to each cow’s udders, and a digital display recording each cows daily mile production statistics would light up.  The whole process was oddly mesmerizing.

Near the dairy I found two dogs sitting on a porch. One was a Great Dane/German Shepherd mix, and the other looked like Pit Bull/Golden Retriever mix. Both were shaved for the summer but still retained a tiny poof of hair on the tips of their tails, which made them vaguely resemble lions. I am told this is common practice here. Nearly all dogs, large and small, Poodles or Pomeranians, are sheared for the summer but allowed to keep that small part of their hair: their lion tail.

After lunch at the cafeteria, Reuven drove us to the beach and gave us seemingly simple directions for returning by foot. Unfortunately, if directions given by an Israeli seem deceivingly simple, it's because they are probably wrong.  About 40 minutes through a seemingly never-ending field into what was supposed to be a 10-minute walk, we stumbled upon on red, dusty road outside an army base. My husband managed to get the attention of a lookout in a watchtower and yelled up to her for directions. A shouting match later, we were instructed to go back, attempt to find the last sign, and take the road opposite the direction it pointed to. Miraculously, this got us back on track to the kibbutz, albeit exhausted and sunburned.

As we approached the housing area, a yellow dog trotted past us wearing a ridiculously wide grin. The back half of her body was covered in what looked like mud but smelled like sewage. She looked over her shoulder and woofed to her partner in crime, a Collie that seemed to be on its way home and who, after finding the right spot in someone's yard, laid down for a nap. This seemed a perfect analogy for Israeli culture: waist-deep in shit and still smiling.

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