Volunteer: kibbutz

Apartments is what we’d been told, but these were, in fact, disused army barracks, which hadn’t been renovated since the Six Day War; tiny rooms with home-made porches fashioned from mosquito netting and dried palm fronds, populated by yet more people who found our array of suitcases and backpacks highly amusing. “Well, I’ll need high heels, make up, photos and a cuddly toy drenched in my boyfriend’s aftershave in the desert won’t I?” I had thought before we set off, trying to cram as much of home as possible into my bag.

The room we were told was ours can most flatteringly be described as the half-way point between hovel and a slop house. Even in the dying light, it was clear to see that grime clung to every surface, the walls were covered in graffiti, and that that constant hum was coming from the flies who clustered, with one or two cockroaches, by the metal-silled windows. Trying for sleep, whilst obviously making sure every inch of my flesh was safely inside my sleeping bag, I did not feel like it had been a good start.

But in the morning, things definitely looked different. The room was still disgusting, but one of the other volunteers assured us that this wasn’t representative of the rest of the kibbutz, and that the former inhabitants had been thrown out because of how they’d trashed the place. Our first job was to transform it, using mountains of cleaning products. But outside our ‘apartment’, the view was as stunning as the inside was foul. The kibbutz was formed of a mixture of ex-barracks and newly constructed housing; it’s orchards and dairy straddling the desert road that led to the resort town of Eilat. There were mountains, tinged pink in the sunlight blazing behind the kibbutz, and endless rolling desert flung out in front - seeing that every morning soon proved a better wake up jolt than coffee.

Kibbutzim are socialist communities dotted around Israel where members vote on all actions together, work in different jobs for the same or no pay and get everything they need from laundry to medical advice, from the kibbutz itself. They eat together, celebrate together, and the children learn and spend almost all leisure time together. Kibbutzim are known for ‘making the desert bloom’, and their agricultural success has been important to Israel’s economy, as well as it’s sense of nationality, and nationalism. The kibbutz movement and that of Zionism are closely tied together which of course brings it’s own problems. But for four eighteen-year-olds away from home for the first time, Kibbutz gave the opportunity to meet a massive variety of people from all over the world, experience a completely different way of life, and get to know a country which, being Jewish, we all felt a degree of connection to.

Plus, being on a kibbutz was a chance to live in a relatively structured environment, whilst enjoying independence. Some of us had looked into the many year-long Israel courses run by Jewish youth groups or the American-run Hebrew University, and they do offer an astonishing variety of options and experiences, but we found them either too study-heavy, when this was a holiday after all, or too closely supervised. We liked the idea that we could stay as long as we wanted, get the occasional week or two off to explore Jordan, Sinai or Egypt, and meet Israelis and other nationalities.

It didn’t take long to settle in. As new volunteers, we were given the dull and irritatingly split-shifted dining room duty, wiping tables and manning the industrial sized dishwasher, but we were welcomed with open arms. In the first month we made friends with volunteers and workers from Quebec, Holland, California, Thailand and Israeli-Arabs, as well as the Shinshin and the Guarin - the groups of soldiers doing their extra kibbutz time before or after their time in the army. We made our own porch from discarded materials around the kibbutz, and went to the weekly pub night in a disused chicken shed, gagging on the domestic vodka that our trusty Rough Guide had told us had been known to be actually lethal. We smoked fruit tobacco from traditional nargilas or shishas, talked endlessly, romanced a little, and I became more relaxed than I had ever been before.

After we’d completed our time in the dreaded dining room, we managed to find other jobs to do. Although the four of us had come to the kibbutz together, we each found a place to work which particularly suited us. My artistic friend Jess got a job with a Spanish carpenter, whom she helped to make chairs and doors from reclaimed old furniture. Practical Jen, a hairdresser by trade, was apprentice to the kibbutz electrician before taking a job in the refet or dairy. Ana got to work in the kitchen, cutting endless vegetables into perfect cubes and slices. There were many more options too, from cleaning the guest areas (the kibbutz had a successful tourism arm), folding clothes in the laundry, working with kids in the school, or painting apartments or murals.

I however, was desperate to work in the date orchards. At lunch, the date workers would stride in, clad in dusty clothes, looking tanned and healthy, occasionally swinging from their belts the machetes they used for cutting off thorns. The job looked completely fun; what could be better than climbing around tree branches in the sun all day? When one volunteer on the team moved on I immediately asked about her job, and to my utter surprise and delight I was a natural, scampering up branches like a monkey on speed. It was hard work though; by the time I joined the team it was late March and the days were beginning to get hotter, and tying the date pods or shaking the fronds free of bad fruit was real physical labour. We started work earlier and earlier, trying to get as much done as possible before the sun came up. But the petrol controlled crane-platforms that lifted us to the bottom branches were fitted with old car radios, and we’d listen to music as we worked, two or three to a tree. There was no better feeling than gazing out on the desert in the hot sunshine, with a great song blaring and getting to know the others.

It is impossible to write about a gap year trip to Israel and not mention its politics and problems. When I first arrived at least, my knowledge in this area was patchy at best. I saw the kibbutz as a vibrant melting-pot of different nationalities, Palestinians living side by side with Israelis, with everyone’s contribution equal. The longer I was there though, the longer I was aware that this was very much not the case. Not all kibbutzim are religious; in fact most aren’t. Ketura had been started by a group of Jewish Americans, graduates of one of the youth-group led courses of decades ago. Their philosophy was pleasingly pluralist, at least in terms of observance. Each Friday night and Saturday morning there would be a religious service and a secular service, volunteers and members were free to go to either, or neither. Volunteers and members were allowed to break Orthodox Sabbath rules and listen to music, for instance, but were expected to do so using earphones, or else very quietly in case someone else would rather not hear it.

However, paid workers who were Arab Israelis or Thai were not eligible to apply to join the kibbutz or say how it was run - although it should be said they did not necessarily want to, as the kibbutz was a job rather than a home to them. Volunteers too who weren’t Jewish would not have been allowed to pursue membership, but the kibbutz cared deeply about being a religious space. And although volunteers as well as the Shinshin and Guarin groups did mix with literally everyone, for the most part the kibbutz members didn’t.

Within a month I had fallen completely in love with Ketura - I couldn’t imagine wanting to leave and when our allotted four months were up we decided to explore the rest of the country and Egypt as planned, but then return for however long we each wanted to stay. When we got back, my three friends and I went our separate ways a lot more; living with different volunteers, Shinshin or Guarin members, and spending time with our ‘adopted families’ - kibbutz members who would cook us the odd dinner and invite us round to their proper houses to watch tv.

But after nine months or so away, I began to miss home. I became a little tired of other people leaving too - we’d stayed quite a lot longer than most volunteers do - and decided it was time to go. When I packed, every item of clothing I had worn since arriving fit easily into one small bag. I lugged the four other unused ones from under the bed and dusted them off, marvelling that I had felt their contents to be of use on kibbutz. One friend had already left, one friend went with me, and one stayed out for another couple of months, milking cows and sunbathing.

Have you vounteered or worked on a kibbutz? Tell us about your experience below: