Rivka BenTzion — Israel

Interviewer: Eitan Alloni, Israel

Interviewee: Rivka BenTzion, kibbutznik, Israel

Eitan: Good morning, Rivka, and thank you for agreeing to be part of this project.

Rivka: I’m a kibbutznikit. When I see something that needs to be done, I do it. I think this needs doing.

Eitan: Rivka, you’ve been through not one, but two big upheavals in your life. I think it’s fair to say that these were mirror images of each other.

Tell us how it was growing up on Kibbutz Sheffa HaMidbar.

Rivka: Sheffa HaMidbar was founded in 1962. My grandparents on both sides were among the founders.

My parents were in the first generation born here. So, I’m third generation, I believe you would say.

Eitan: If I remember correctly, you were born after the change happened from children living in the children’s houses to living with their parents. Am I right?

Rivka: Yes, that’s right. I slept at my parents’ place, along with my twin sister Ofrah. They didn’t have any more because my mother had complications and was infertile after we were born.

Eitan: Are you identical twins?

Rivka: No, fraternal.

Eitan: So, what was it like?

Rivka: I had mostly a really happy childhood. I had my parents and sister and grandparents right there, and lots of friends.

You have to understand something about kibbutz. It’s very safe and nurturing for a child. We pretty much had the run of the place. You didn’t have that elsewhere. A child in the city couldn’t just go play in any yard in the neighborhood, and they had to watch out for cars and beware of all kinds of things. But growing up on kibbutz, even the most unpleasant person wasn’t a threat. There were only a very few cars that everyone shared so we didn’t have to worry about getting hit by one.

It really felt like one big family.

No one’s parents were richer or poorer than another’s. No one had to worry about losing their job or not being able to pay their bills.

On the other hand, gossip was always a problem like in any small town. You couldn’t sneeze without everyone knowing it and spreading the word that you are contagious with the flu. When I was little it didn’t bother me, but in my teens it did, like the time I kissed Yossi Harel. He told everyone I did a lot more. I went through a few weeks of hell. Finally, I jumped him in the cheder ochel (mess hall) with everyone there and told him I’d break his arm if he didn’t confess his lie in front of everyone. I’m stronger than him and I caught him by surprise, so he got the shaming he deserved.

We had a lot of activities and field trips along with serious study and some work.

Sometimes it was a little claustrophobic. Not at first but by high school I wanted to go to Be’er Sheva and Tel Aviv whenever I could with friends and sometimes with Ofrah. We also liked to go to Eilat sometimes. But I wasn’t unhappy, just restless.

My parents were good, and we had good family relations, but I did have my teenage rebellion.

Then when I turned eighteen, I went into the Army of course. During tironut (basic training) I was with Ofrah and a lot of my friends from the kibbutz and other kibbutzim in the area. We could tell that our main drill sergeant didn’t like kibbitznikim so she made it harder on us than others, but it didn’t get to us. We had a strong sense of solidarity. The day we graduated from tironut, she challenged anyone interested to a race around the perimeter of the base.

Almost everyone was too tired to care, but I decided I could beat her. She laughed and said something like “This’ll be a short race!”

Everyone was cheering me all the way. I felt a surge of strength. I decided there’s no way this bat zonah is going to beat me. I beat her by two full seconds.

Then I was sent off for artillery training and finally became a drill sergeant myself. I learned to put on that badass persona, but I never let myself act like a jerk. What can I tell you, it is what it is.

Things were quiet during my Sadir (regular army service). We had normal relations with most of our former mortal enemies. Only Syria, ISIL, and Iran were still a concern, and they weren’t even united among them. Relations with Autonomous Palestine were mutually uncomfortable, but we were in between boilovers. Hamas had long since been relegated to the fringes after they overestimated how much abuse the Palestinian people would be willing to accept. The more reasonable Palestine Dawn party had been in power for a while and were focused more on improving life for their people then on Israel at all.

My two years passed quickly enough, and I came home. I hoped to travel to Europe or China or America if I could, but I knew one thing for sure: when the va’adat klitah (Membership absorption committee) asked me if, as a bat meshek (daughter of the kibbutz) I wanted to stay and be a full member, my answer would be Yes. The army and visits to cities and development towns had eased some of my wanderlust, but I definitely wouldn’t want to live there. I was thoroughly kibbutz down to my bones.

I did get approved, along with Ofrah and my two best friends, to travel to Europe for a month. We got Eurailpasses and managed to get to every country from England to Greece in that month. We ate too much, drank too much, and maxed our phone memories with pictures and videos with which we flooded the Internet. So, we were typical Israelis just out of the Army…

Eitan: What happened when you got home?

Rivka: After a couple of days of sharing about Europe with family and friends, the sadran avodah (work coordinator) put all four of us back on the roster. Of course, we were assigned to the kitchen and the cheder ochel (communal mess hall) for the time being. I don’t know how much you know about kibbutz life, but it’s not unusual to do many jobs in your lifetime. Since kitchen and cheder ochel were less-desirable jobs, usually we would take turns doing it for a while. It’s kind of the same idea as what’s now called avodah choranit (schlock-work).

At Friday’s weekly kibbutz meeting, Eli Abutbul, the coordinator of the va’adat klitah asked each of us if we wanted to commit to kibbutz membership and all of the rights and responsibilities that come with it.

Shosh and I said yes. Ofrah and Revital said no, they wanted to try city life. It was like that with our classmates: about half wanted to stay, about half wanted to leave. Since Israel isn’t a big country, it wouldn’t be hard to stay in touch.

Then life settled down to routine and I was pretty happy.

In the Army I had met Chayim Gilboa, but our relationship didn’t have a chance to grow until after. He was from Kibbutz Revivim, not far from us. We saw a lot of each other until we decided to get married. Revivim was an older kibbutz, and Chayim liked the idea of living on my younger kibbutz where there was more of a difference to be made.

Our wedding was the kind of huge, awesome party that you’d expect from two kibbutz kids. The DJ was great and knew every song we could throw at him. Chayim’s mother’s family are from Morocco so of course there was a maimuna with all the trimmings.

We moved into family housing from singles territory where I’d been living, and soon I was pregnant with Zohar and Aharon (No surprise there. Twins run in my family).

I got myself assigned to the bayit tinokot (baby nursery) so I could be with my babies all the time. A lot of mothers did that. Chayim got assigned to noi (landscaping and gardening) so he could come quickly if anything happened. We were two new, nervous parents.

Life was opening up nicely and we were happy, at least for a few years.

Eitan: Which brings us to the question: what happened to change that happiness?

Rivka: One word: privatizatzia (privatization).

Eitan: Tell me about it.

Rivka: Of course, everyone knew about it. A lot of kibbutzim were privatizing, but not all. Sheffa HaMidbar was one kibbutz that had proudly resisted that trend up until Tzippi Dror, the kibbutz general secretary at the time, brought it up for discussion out out of the blue at one of our weekly kibbutz meetings.

I was in shock!

Tzippi gave all the usual blah-blah about how privatization meant more room for individual expression, how it would be more efficient, about changing with the times and as always, the pressure from the government.

For decades, the Likkud had controlled the government with increasingly aggressive imitations of American style capitalism. They resented the fact that the quality of life on kibbutzim was higher than elsewhere. They claimed that we had special status and breaks that other sectors didn’t have. They simply couldn’t or wouldn’t believe that the reason why such a small percentage of the population could produce such a high percentage of the country’s output, have such a high percentage of Israel’s outstanding achievers, and enjoy a higher quality of life was because our way of life worked better. They kept claiming that we were unfairly advantaged and prospering at other people's expense. They simply refused to accept a non-capitalistic way of life in the country.

So, they found ways to maneuver the economy and legal system to put kibbutzim into near bankruptcy. Then they started pressuring us to privatize.

Tzippi had swallowed all of this whole. She went on and on about how we should be able to have private cars and how more productive members should be able to have more than lazier members.

She said she thought it was no different from when kibbutzim went from children living in the children’s houses to living with their parents.

The discussion that followed was the most raucous mess that I could ever remember. I was one of the strongest voices for keeping the kibbutz a kibbutz.

It got so out out of control that we unanimously voted to adjourn the meeting and set up small discussion groups to discuss it and then come back to it next week.

I felt like I’d been run over by a tractor. I couldn’t believe there were that many people who actually agreed with Tzippi. Her I could understand, it was in her character to buy into that kind of thinking. But the fact that there was actual support for the idea felt like the world was ending. But I felt confident that it would ultimately be defeated. If someone wanted privatizatzia, let them move to a moshav or a development town or even Tel Aviv! Live and let live!

The debate and discussion went on for over a month. The kibbutz almost fell apart. I know I couldn’t stand to work with someone who supported privatizatzia. It made my blood boil! Some friendships ended and a couple of families were on the verge of divorce.

Finally, someone came from the Kibbutz Movement and sang the praises of “renewal,” a gross euphemism for privatizatzia. He spoke of changing with the times and attracting more members and more individual freedom and all that blah-blah.

In the end it was accepted by the narrowest possible margin.

Eitan: How did that go? What changed? What stayed the same?

Riva: It was really like the end of the world. The feeling of community, of being like a big extended family, was gone.

Suddenly we had to pay for everything out of a salary that we would be paid. But it was going to be a “differential salary” just like outside in the capitalist world. We would be paid differently depending on what job we did, by the same arbitrary ideas as in the city. So, the general secretary, financial officer, treasurer, and the heads of our industrial, agricultural, and tourist branches would be paid a king’s ransom, and those of us who worked in what were deemed less valuable occupations would be paid less than minimum wage in the city.

Guess where Chayim and I found ourselves? Apparently caring for everyone’s babies and keeping our kibbutz home beautiful and green weren’t considered to be worth much. So we would have to take a lot of extra little jobs to afford to live. Meanwhile Tzippi went out and bought her own private car within the first six months, while the shared vehicles were only available for a fee and were last priority in the kibbutz garage.

Before, even if you were assigned to a job you didn’t like, you knew it wasn’t forever. We all did many jobs in our lives. But no more. We were locked in place and the only way to change was for someone to leave or to want to switch with you or if it got approved by the committee which was harder than fighting ISIL.

We talked about moving out and finding another kibbutz, but the number of “refugees” from “renewed” kibbutzim to traditional kibbutzim had overwhelmed the ability of the latter to absorb them. We put our names on the waiting list but were told it would be years.

We didn’t want to go to the city or a moshav. Kibbutz was all we knew, and in those two options we would be at a big disadvantage, especially with two children. So, we stayed and were miserable. The same thing happened to most of the friends we still had.

Some people, like Tzippi but she wasn’t the only one by far, had come from the city and still had a lot of assets there or well-off relatives. A few others were good at investing. So some members had bigger houses, private cars, private swimming pools, and frequent vacations overseas. But original members and children of the kibbutz obviously had nothing like that. So, we had a double disadvantage.

Community and social life went to hell. The cheder ochel, the communal dining room that had been the center of our community became a tourist restaurant at tourist prices. The shared culture center was suddenly not free and not cheap so mostly only the new upper class could afford to go. The public swimming pool and children’s playground and petting zoo now required recurring membership fees.

It was a miserable nightmare that we were stuck in for the next twenty years or so.

Oh, we real kibbutzniks banded together and did our best to share and support each other morally and materially, but it felt like living in a ghetto or a prison after having lived free from birth. We never could forget that we were second-class members. But we did our own spontaneous little concerts of our own talent, had a lot of shared barbecues, and shared rides in the shared vehicles to split the fees. We got goats and chickens for milk and eggs and meat and did some gardening in the little plots at our houses.

Sometimes the upper class members would try to come to our get togethers. We’d tell them they would have to pay. No free admittance for them. They can’t have it both ways. There were a few fist fights, but we made it stick. Real kibbutzniks are pretty tough!

Eitan: And what happened in twenty years or so that changed that. Pretend we don’t know.

Rivka: Again one word (or maybe two): Hama’avar (the transition) or as we kibbutznikim like to say, chazarah habaita (coming home).

Eitan: Tell us about it.

Rivka: Of course everybody knew about the transitions in Latin America, Africa, and Asia. And by then most people knew at least a little bit about what it was.

As you know, everything here in Israel was always very expensive, so when cheap, high-quality goods from transitioned countries started to come in, people got excited. Even a lot of imported food started to be so cheap! And clothes! And shoes! And electronics and then some cars! If there’s one thing that we Israelis loved, it was a bargain, and we didn’t even have to do any bargaining to get it! Of course, with our typical cynicism, we also tended to suspect that it was some kind of trick or gimmick, or that it wouldn’t last. But it was real, and it lasted.

People also noticed that employees in Israel of companies in transitioned countries saw their pay, benefits and treatment get a thousand percent better.

One thing you can say about Israelis is that we’re realists. Idealists too of course, but the only way we survived was to be realists.

As kibbutznikim, we thought we recognized something kibbutz-like in transitioned countries. And since we love to travel, a lot of people vacationed in those countries. The stories they told sounded too good to be true at first, but then there were so many people coming back with the same kinds of stories. It began to sink in. We started to get excited.

The Cure was finally translated into Hebrew, though a lot of us knew enough English to get through it, especially the short version.

In our little ghetto it was almost all that we talked about. We studied and discussed and communicated with people in transitioned countries. And to think, so many countries had transitioned in only about a year! It felt like we could do this.

At our weekly governing meetings, the subject came up with predictable results: we real kibbutzniks pushed for the kibbutz to take an active role in bringing it on; the “reform” ones said it was unrealistic. They even went so far as to try to make a connection between transition and how our founding forefathers had started out thinking Joseph Stalin was our best friend and a true hero, only to find out later what a monster he was. That got a lot of boos and table pounding. The kibbutz remained divided.

But outside of the kibbutzim, in the cities and towns and moshavim, the idea was leaping ahead as well. Over a half century of corrupt Likkud rule with all of the nasty power politics and the wealth disparity that had become intolerable under their undisguised greedy policies had finally worn thin. The series of Likkud prime ministers and members of the knesset who had openly committed fraud and other crimes and flaunted getting away with it had reached the breaking point. The privatization of Kupat cholim (National health insurance) had dropped Israel to the bottom twenty countries in the UN list for quality of healthcare. People were actually going into Autonomous Palestine for medical care, and they were happy to give it because of its propaganda value.

Even the rallying cry of “Greater Israel” had lost its appeal. For that matter, most of our former enemies were now allies who were common enemies with our enemies. Even the situation with Palestine had worked down to an uneasy détente with growing numbers of Israelis and Palestinians ignoring the animosity.

Israel was ripe for transition. For over three quarters of Israelis, it was obvious that transition was just what we needed. So, we went into it pretty quickly. The date was set, and the rest is history. There was some opposition but a lot less than in many other countries. Later I felt especially bad for the Americans!

Eitan: How did this translate into life on Sheffa HaMidbar?

Rivka: There’s a reason why we call it “coming home.”

Overnight the whole country transitioned. The old capitalism was gone, along with its ways of doing things, its norms, and its pressure on us kibbutzim.

At the next meeting, it was proposed to return to original kibbutz norms and principles with just a few changes. Tzippi, who was still general secretary because why would she quit? Tried to object but she was reminded that currency now had no value and no function in the country, so time to change with the times, baby! Made her eat her own words.

After that, kibbutz life settled into a new pattern even better than before privatizatzia. Social life came back. We all gathered at the culture center for concerts and other activities. We all swam in the pool and once again everybody’s kids played in the playground. The cheder ochel once again became the hub of our community where we enjoy meals and events together that are too big for the culture center. Sometimes one likes to just eat at home, but food is there to take in the pantry.

A few things that changed included some unexpected ones. For example, we returned to shared vehicles, but there are enough of them that no one ever has trouble finding one when they need it. In a way it’s like private cars because as it turns out, each of us kind of bonded to a particular car even though it’s not official, just like most of us have regular places where we sit in the cheder ochel or the cultural center though it’s not a rule or something that’s enforced.

If someone wants to expand their house within reason, they can. Any of us can if we want, not just some of us. I think Tzippi enjoyed having more than others. But she did manage to adjust. She’s no longer general secretary. She works in the dairy farm at the moment. I’ve since then been general secretary once for a couple of years. It helped me appreciate the stresses of that job. I like that we rotate jobs again.

Now, if a majority of us want to do something, we no longer have to worry about how the kibbutz can afford it. We no longer have to sweat about repaying loans. We can just produce what we produce, enjoy the fruits of our labor and enjoy our labor itself.

Nothing humans do will ever be perfect. There will always be shortcomings and things that can be better. But now I’d say that for Sheffa HaMidbar and for Israel, it’s the best it’s ever been.

We still have a lot of work to do in terms of finding a better interaction with the Palestinians, and the ultra-religious, the dossim, still want to force all Jews to be religious whether we want it or not. We still haven’t been able to get to where we can run busses on Saturday, though self-driving buses are finally, after decades of false starts, nearly ready to go into service so the dossim won’t be able to object to working on shabbos as long as the buses aren’t switched on after sunset Friday nights. We still have to come to terms with how to be the Jewish homeland state and not degenerate into an oppressive theocracy. We still have ISIL, Iran, and Syria as regional threats. And we still have a lot of work to do with our Arab neighbors to repair the damage of climate change.

There’ll always be a lot of work to do. But we kibbutzniks are used to that. We roll up our sleeves and get to work, together.

Eitan: That was really eye-opening, Rivka! I really didn’t know much about kibbutz life before. All I’ve ever known is Tel Aviv. It makes me want to bring the family for a visit. Would that be possible?

Rivka: We have very comfortable guest accommodations. You and your family are always welcome. Just give me a call and we’ll set up a reservation for you. I’d suggest avoiding the holidays because they’re so busy and it’s first come, first served. I’ll tell Chayim to expect you. You can have dinner with us in our outstanding cheder ochel. Of course, I’m prejudiced because our son Aharon is the main chef, and his cooking is to die for. But it really is. I’d say that even if he wasn’t my son!

Eitan: OK, that’s a plan.

Is there anything else you’d like to say to future readers?

Rivka: Only that I think transition came more easily and naturally to kibbutznikim than to others. We had the head start of generations of social and economic equality, peer-based decision making, and non-hierarchical society. We already had those skills. For us, Transition really was a coming home, but to a better home than we had left. That also makes us appreciate it all the more.

One thing we kibbutzim have lost is our distinctness from the city, but in the opposite direction from what happened during privatizatzia. In many ways, living on kibbutz and living in the city are more similar than ever before. Yet both have changed for the better.

Oh, I just remembered something from my kita vav (sixth grade) kibbutz history class.

Another thing kibbutzim have always had in common with transitioned societies is that we are self-re-evaluating. We aren’t static. We grow and change and evolve with experience. At first the children all lived together in the children’s houses. At some point they decided to have them live at home. At first there were no private radios because there was no way to have one for everybody, so there was one radio that got passed around, shared among everyone. When TV’s first came out, they were extremely expensive, so we had one good one in the culture center where everyone watched it together. But when they got more affordable and the kibbutz had more money, they decided to make sure everyone had their own TV.

That pretty much killed the social life. There was no night of the week when enough people were willing to miss this or that TV show. No one was willing to be the one to give up their favorite program, and don’t even think about touching futbol!

But they couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle. But then VCR’s came out, you know, those old video recorders from the old days?

At first there was one in the culture center that made it like a movie theater. Then when they became affordable, they voted to have private VCR’s. And guess what? The social life came back! Suddenly no one had to miss their program! They could plan social and cultural events again. So, this repaired the damage done by television.

My point is that kibbutz is strong, robust, and adaptive. I believe kibbutz will survive all and any changes and in the end still be true to its principles. And for the first time, I believe our country and most of the world has those same qualities.

Eitan: Thank you, Rivka, for your time and candor. I’ll call you in the next few days to arrange our visit. Could we stay for a week?

Rivka: Sure. And if you really want to experience something of kibbutz life, I can have the sadran avodah (work coordinator) put you all into the work roster for that week. Life on kibbutz revolves around work, so you’d probably be pretty bored sitting around while we’re all working.

Eitan: Yes, I think I’d like that. And that can be material for another article. Is that OK?

Rivka: Absolutely. Let’s do it. See you and your family soon.

Eitan: I look forward to meeting Chayim and your two sons.

Rivka: And one granddaughter!

Eitan: Until then.

Rivka: Until then.