Vivian
Rakoff, in “Ideally Speaking” says: “Idealism in a way is a
manifestation of a generalized human desire to have a sense-making model
or paradigm of the world. There are those who just accept what is given
to them implicitly without it being explicit and there are those who
try to make it explicit and if they haven’t got a model, go looking for
it. We seem to need a sense-making system that takes away the sense of
frivolity in our existence because we have a real terror of
meaninglessness.”
The
major difference between myself, and the South African Jews interviewed
in the book who decided to emigrate to Israel in the end, is that they
came here for reasons of ideology. I came first and discovered the
ideology afterwards.
In
a way, I am somewhat envious of those who grew up in Jewish youth
movements, with a clear sense of their own identity, engaging in
intellectual discussions of burning issues. Jonathan Broomberg, in
“Ideally Speaking”, says: “My sense is that each person who was in the
movement in each generation has a different and quite unique relation to
that ideology. At one end of the spectrum were people whose involvement
was entirely a function of the group while at the other end you had
people for whom it ran very deep personally.”
The
reason for my lack of ideology, then, as a youth, might have been
because there was no group for me to be a part of. I grew up in a rather
sterile WASPish suburb of Toronto. My family didn’t have any marked
ethnic distinction. And although I read extensively - devouring the
theories of Freud, the teachings of different world religions, the
background to revolution and the philosophy of the ancient Greeks...
there was no one to intellectually share these ideas with. At a time
when the hippies were beginning to assemble in the streets of downtown
Toronto, preaching new world order from their makeshift community in
Yorkville, my peers in Scarborough were only concerned with the trivial
affairs of the day.
And
by the time that I was old enough to join the hippie movement, it was
already petering out. But two things stayed with me from all of their
proclamations for social renewal and a better world: one was the idea of
communal living and the other was the return to the land.
Meanwhile,
in South Africa, the Jewish youth there were also talking about
creating a better world, although their approach was quite different
from that of the “flower generation. In most Jewish youth movements,
the concept of Israel and the kibbutz were almost inseparable. Israel
was seen to hold the promise of “a light unto the nations”, and most saw
this to be best realized through the socialistic and utopian nature of
the kibbutz life style.
By
the time I heard about the kibbutz in my sheltered existence, the “real
terror of meaninglessness” had already led me to consider leaving Canada
in the search of something more. I heard about the kibbutz for the first
time from a friend of my sister’s, who was planning to go to a six
month ulpan on a kibbutz where you learn Hebrew half the day and work
the other half. Something seemed to click when she told me about this
and I felt that this was something I had to do. The irony was that she
never did go to Israel in the end, but rather went to work with the
native Indian community somewhere in Alberta, trying to right the wrongs
of discrimination in her own backyard. Which is somewhat similar to the
decision of many South African Jews not to emigrate to Israel but stay
in South Africa and fight against Apartheid.
So,
somehow I and many South Africans ended up in the same place. I had
never planned, though, to stay here. I came to see socialism in action,
and also learn Hebrew on the side. The ideology only really came
afterwards. There was a time when I believed I would spend the rest of
my life on the kibbutz. But that is when reality set in, both for me and for
many of the South Africans who had decided to settle on a kibbutz. We
gradually discovered the discrepancies between vision and reality;
between the idealization of human nature and human primal instinct. If
“Ideally Speaking” is any indication, most of the South African Jews who
came to live on a kibbutz have since left. Many have left Israel, also -
some going back to South Africa and others settling in other countries
around the globe. We came very close to leaving Israel when we left the
kibbutz, also. But in the end, we stayed, settling for isolation in the
desert. The main difference here between me and South Africans, was that
I only felt overly disillusioned with the kibbutz, feeling that it
didn’t live up to its ideals. Many South Africans had become
disillusioned with the country as a whole, feeling that they had been
misled during their years in the youth movements about what really to
expect. But my advantage, perhaps, was that I had first landed in Israel
without any expectations. No one had tried to plant a pretty picture in
my mind about Israel. Rather, at the kibbutz desk, when applying to
come to a kibbutz ulpan, they appeared more interested in dissuading me
from going.
You
might wonder why I have concentrated on comparing my own experience to
that of South African Jews. Why I would want to make such a comparison
at all. Or why I didn’t choose youth closer to home, such as North
American Jewish youth.
This
was inspired by a book I recently read and have quoted here: “Ideally Speaking”. Although the book is based on a series of interviews with a
wide cross-section of South African Jews - now living in South Africa,
Israel and abroad - I feel that much of what is expressed in the book is
relevant to all of us, and warmly recommend the book to all of you. I
first heard of the book from one of its two editors: Steve Hellman
(Lindsay Talmud is the other editor). I had never met a South African
before coming to Israel and Steve was one of the first South Africans
that I did meet. Not only that, but Steve played a significant part in
my life in the early eighties when I was just starting out as a new
teacher. In his role as coordinator of the English department at Kibbutz
Brenner Regional High School, where I began my teaching career, Steve
both welcomed me to the world of teaching and served as my mentor. And I
owe it to him for not only getting through those first few months as a
new teacher, but for also instilling in me the inspiration for
thinking outside of the box in my teaching and in creating authentic
teaching environments. Thirty years have passed since then and only now
have I really discovered the world that Steve came from. And I thank him
for what he gave me then, and what he has shared with me now.
An irreverent look at all things Canadian and Israeli by a Canadian expat who somehow ended up in self-exile somewhere in the empty expanse of the Negev desert.
Showing posts with label ulpan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ulpan. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Ideally Speaking
Labels:
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Saturday, June 11, 2011
Kibbutz by the Sea
Last week, standing on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, I watched as the sun began its slow descent into the sea. The air was quiet, the colours of the kibbutz slowly changing into an evening hue. Fourteen years. Fourteen years mixed in the salty air, the sound of seagulls, the faint sound of a tractor in the distance. Fourteen years, as I looked over to the row of white houses built into the steep hill running down to the beach below, our house second to the right.
I have visited many beautiful places in my life, and have also been fortunate to live in two of them. One of them is where I am living now - Midreshet Ben Gurion, perched high above Wadi Zin (Zin Valley) in the Negev Desert, reaching towards the red mountains of Jordan. And the other is Kibbutz Palmachim, resting on the Mediterranean Sea, squeezed in between Tel Aviv and Ashdod, with Rishon Le Zion sneaking in from the rear.
“How could you have left a house on the sea?” people ask me. Yet no one asks anymore, “How could you have left the kibbutz?”
I never expected to leave the kibbutz, but then, I never expected to be there in the first place. And if it hadn’t been for my reading of “Walden Two”, I probably never would have.
For a long time, I identified with Thoreau’s “Walden”: isolating myself from society, both mentally and emotionally, in order to obtain a more objective understanding of it; my way of achieving self-reliance. But Skinner’s “Walden Two” suggested an alternative: a utopia of communal interaction where self-reliance is attained at the community level. In such a community, one must become a participant, as well as an observer.
Like most things, this would have never gone beyond philosophical masturbation had it not been for a friend of my sister who told me about the ulpan program on the kibbutz. Not only was there suddenly a place offering itself as a testing ground for such theory, but it was a place I could easily go to for six months.
I don’t know what I expected to happen once I was on the kibbutz. I certainly never expected to spend the next fourteen years of my life there. But I felt that I had found my place. Milking cows, learning to drive a tractor, moving irrigation lines, going to university, starting a teaching career, teaching myself computers in order to computerize the kibbutz school, marriage, three children, and filling most of the key administrative positions on the kibbutz - fourteen years may not be a lot for some, but it was a key period of my life.
It wasn’t an easy decision to leave the kibbutz. My wife, who was born and raised on the kibbutz, had already wanted to leave for a number of years in order to try something new. But it wasn’t until I filled the delicate position as the head of the members’ committee that I was faced with such discrepancies between what the kibbutz was and what it professed to be, that I decided it was time to leave also.
It was while being on the kibbutz that I discovered that I could be both a social hermit and an active participant in the running of the community. So, it was only natural, upon discovering the Internet in the early nineties, that I use this tool to create virtual communities through which the members would provide mutual assistance, while I remained in the background, helping to run things quietly. In my English Teachers Network, which contains over 1,700 members, I have personally met only a few members face to face, although I answer scores of messages every day. I am sure that there are those who believe that I am simply a virtual creation who is online 24/7. And you know what? I am quite content with that assumption.
Standing on the cliff, looking out over the sea, the last half of the sun slowly sinks into the sea. I do not feel sad that we left. Some of the memories I relive, some are totally forgotten. But there are things that are not lost... a Canadian, a kibbutznik... things that I still take with me.
I have visited many beautiful places in my life, and have also been fortunate to live in two of them. One of them is where I am living now - Midreshet Ben Gurion, perched high above Wadi Zin (Zin Valley) in the Negev Desert, reaching towards the red mountains of Jordan. And the other is Kibbutz Palmachim, resting on the Mediterranean Sea, squeezed in between Tel Aviv and Ashdod, with Rishon Le Zion sneaking in from the rear.
“How could you have left a house on the sea?” people ask me. Yet no one asks anymore, “How could you have left the kibbutz?”
I never expected to leave the kibbutz, but then, I never expected to be there in the first place. And if it hadn’t been for my reading of “Walden Two”, I probably never would have.
For a long time, I identified with Thoreau’s “Walden”: isolating myself from society, both mentally and emotionally, in order to obtain a more objective understanding of it; my way of achieving self-reliance. But Skinner’s “Walden Two” suggested an alternative: a utopia of communal interaction where self-reliance is attained at the community level. In such a community, one must become a participant, as well as an observer.
Like most things, this would have never gone beyond philosophical masturbation had it not been for a friend of my sister who told me about the ulpan program on the kibbutz. Not only was there suddenly a place offering itself as a testing ground for such theory, but it was a place I could easily go to for six months.
I don’t know what I expected to happen once I was on the kibbutz. I certainly never expected to spend the next fourteen years of my life there. But I felt that I had found my place. Milking cows, learning to drive a tractor, moving irrigation lines, going to university, starting a teaching career, teaching myself computers in order to computerize the kibbutz school, marriage, three children, and filling most of the key administrative positions on the kibbutz - fourteen years may not be a lot for some, but it was a key period of my life.
It wasn’t an easy decision to leave the kibbutz. My wife, who was born and raised on the kibbutz, had already wanted to leave for a number of years in order to try something new. But it wasn’t until I filled the delicate position as the head of the members’ committee that I was faced with such discrepancies between what the kibbutz was and what it professed to be, that I decided it was time to leave also.
It was while being on the kibbutz that I discovered that I could be both a social hermit and an active participant in the running of the community. So, it was only natural, upon discovering the Internet in the early nineties, that I use this tool to create virtual communities through which the members would provide mutual assistance, while I remained in the background, helping to run things quietly. In my English Teachers Network, which contains over 1,700 members, I have personally met only a few members face to face, although I answer scores of messages every day. I am sure that there are those who believe that I am simply a virtual creation who is online 24/7. And you know what? I am quite content with that assumption.
Standing on the cliff, looking out over the sea, the last half of the sun slowly sinks into the sea. I do not feel sad that we left. Some of the memories I relive, some are totally forgotten. But there are things that are not lost... a Canadian, a kibbutznik... things that I still take with me.
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