Leivick in Eretz Yisroel 1937, Part 8

When You Visit Ein Harod and Tel Yosef You Feels That a Person in a Kibbutz Need Not Occupy Himself with Bringing the Redemption — He Himself is the Redemption

A quick note from me on this one — in places text in the physical paper was cut off, leading to illegible/missing words. So you’ll get my best guess and a [?] to mark it. — Bluma

Go back to Part 7.

When You Visit Ein Harod and Tel Yosef, You Feel That a Person in a Kibbutz Needs Not Occupy Himself with Bringing the Redemption — He Himself is the Redemption

— A visit to a celebration of students — what a kibbutz looks like by day and at night — a meeting which will happen whether in Hebrew or in Yiddish — the talk of the youth blazed urgently with their passion.

——— When I hear my fill of speech and opinion about Jewish lives over the entire world, of clever and foolish speech, of desperation and bitterness, and I feel as though a leaden cloud sits on my spirit — it is enough for me to recall my visit to Emek, to the communal kibbutzes in Ein Harod, Tel Yosef, Gvat, Beit Alfa and others, and straight away the leaden cloud becomes buoyant, a brightness may rise.

In relation to Eretz Yisroel, above all, there are professional haters amongst us. Just as there are amongst Hebraists such professional haters of Yiddish, their hatred toward the Yiddish language and literature reaching the absurd. There are such people in Eretz Yisroel as well as here with us in America.

If I want to forget about this hate, I remind myself of Ein Harod and Gvat.

The whole physique of Emek, the industrious effort of the kibbutz people, the more or less employed, brotherly method of life — true communist equality, the rhythm of work, of sowing and planting; the palms, the vineyards, the deep heavens at night — this all so affects the spirit that even the most difficult conflict whether outer or inner, may be seen out in a peaceful manner.

Ein Harod acted as a healing upon my spirit. We drove out of Tel Aviv to Ein Harod Shabbos morning and arrived in Ein Harod at the holiday siyum of the seminar of Kibbutz Hameuchad.

A seminar in Ein Harod, in which there studied on courses about a hundred members of various kibbutzes.

The courses had ended, and Ein Harod in partnership with Tel Yosef (two of the most important kibbutzes in Emek) celebrated the conclusion in occasion throughout the Shabbos day and Shabbos evening and night until bright dawn.

Ein Harod consists of about 900 members. Almost an entire village. Ein Harod concerns itself not only with agriculture, but also with large industrial undertakings. It is not a closed kibbutz, like Gvat, for instance, but it is open to new members, to new pioneers, and their tendency is: To expand itself more, spread itself out. Make place for new immigrants, which must arrive.

It continues to build and rebuild the old, initial buildings, into modern, comfortable ones which might be suited to all its members.

A beautiful, large dining room is not long completed. Several streets were set with palms, and in many places — already with grass, as well. Grass in the kibbutzes is a scarce thing.

The best buildings (and also the most care) were given over to the children. The children grow up in children’s residences, under the oversight of faithfully devoted guardians and teachers. Their parents work the entire day, free from the children, and can devote their time and effort to work, the fields, the vineyards.

During the day, when the adults are at work, in the fields or in the workshops, there is quiet in Ein Harod. The stillness often rings with the playful little voices of the children, who play in the playgrounds near the children’s residences. At night, Ein Harod lives loudly [?] and actively — mostly in the large dining room.

The streets which are still sandy, not paved, become filled with movement. Which mimics the Shabbos day. A day of rest and spiritual sustenance.

At night, the kibbutz is enveloped [?] in a strange excitement. Unrest, anxiety, worry about security and protection. The spectre [?] of attack carries over everyone’s heads. Readiness and patience.

Tension. Over the fields and gardens walk several guards, at the entrances and the nearby roads — young men girded and armed, with rifles on their shoulders.

And in the centre of the settlement, the high tower with a large [?], electric, far-reaching eye, the spotlight. The spotlight moves in all directions and casting sharp beams of light into the distance: Watch yourself, attackers [?], watch yourself, because we are on guard, and we will respond, we will protect, to our last breath we will stand and protect our land and building.

And precisely opposite Ein Harod — Mount Gilboa. The mountain on which Saul was killed, that is to say — killed himself, drove his sword into his heart.

Once, once. A thousand years ago.

Saul, the first king, tragic [?], innocent.

The Ein Harod residents welcomed us with happiness and celebration.

It was midday. The khamsin had ruled over the whole going, tormenting everyone with heat, but none had heeded it.

The true festive siyum,¹ — said one of the comrades, who welcomed us, — would happen at night under the open sky in Tel Yosef, not far from us, and now, meanwhile, we celebrate the holiday eve there, in the tall building that looks almost like a barn. This is our gathering place today. There are gathered all the students from the seminar. There they will give a sort of examination for us all, for themselves, and above all for you (he turned to me), for our guest. And from you, I desire for you not to only be a guest, but indeed listen to what our graduating youth, from Emek, have to say and still more, that you might indeed examine them a bit yourself…

This is a two year course that they’ve gone through, — another informed. — A full-time course.

Tomorrow, the day after, they travel, the students, to their homes, and we all wish to have the sense that they depart laden with knowledge and skill, whether with theoretical or practical knowledge.

— Ein Harod is proud of its seminar achievement — added a third.

It was indeed to be seen, that they are proud.

We walked along the path which which lead to the gathering place, to the barn-building…walked into the building, and the faces of the attendees, a portion older, and mostly younger boys, girls and children, truly shone with joy and festivity. All were lightly dressed in shorts, open shirts without ties.

The barn-hall was already full. Packed. Those who had no place below climbed up on the gates of the barn, perched themselves like doves in the heights, and sat so for hours until evening.

A small stage of boards.

The students — young and old, from about 20 and up — are already in their places.

Youth. Youth. Hundreds of smiling, enthusiastic faces of boys and girls. Eager, smouldering eyes, fluttering hands and loud voices.

Those who were not able crowd inside, besieged the entrance from the outside, surrounding the walls.

The khamsin did its part, blew with flames on everyone, and the hotter the wind was, all the more the faces and bodies of everyone ran with sweat.

The assembly was led by one of the students. They spoke both Hebrew and Yiddish. Mostly — Yiddish. I immediately felt that they wanted for me be able to understand; that they wanted it very much. They hadnt put on any rigidity and no official snobbery — that rigidity and snobbery which one notes in official Hebrew-speakers. The people of the kibbutzes are natural and simple in their behaviour, in their manner of speaking. In them, there is much yearning, much camaraderie and amiability. They are full of inner hunger for knowledge and even more spiritual lives. They are laden both with ecstasy and sorrow. Ecstasy and sorrow burn in the pupils of their eyes.

Their bodies, most of them are lean, emaciated from work and night-watchfulness, struggle, flutter, and — restrain themselves, bind themselves. Consciously and willingly silently restraining internally agitated cries and desires. Appeasing it well. And if it cannot be helped by good — with self-control, with a rebuke against their own soul.

The rebuke means:

A person from a kibbutz must be spiritually pure, must be capable of sacrifice, must be whole in his lifestyle, must feel happy as a portion of something greater, of a new order, a new religion of life. A person from a kibbutz doesn’t occupy himself with bringing redemption. He is the redemption. He does not bear and does not bring to anyone the idea of socialism — he issocialism. He lives socialism. He is no professional world-rescuer, no professional communist, and has no little party book in pocket. He is communist and lives communism. Already. Now.

But to say that he already has full happiness in him, that he has resolved all contradictions in himself — this the kibbutznik is afraid to say. This, it seems, very hard to reach. Hard. Hard. About this, the youths did indeed speak, the students of Ein Harod in the barn-building, in the crowdedness and suffocation, under the burning wings of the khamsin.

I am, myself, a bit to blame in this. In my words of welcome to them, I incited them to speak about this. Almost as if with an intent to provoke them thereto. I had wanted to see of them their inner lives. The entire picture around had driven me to speak before them of the interior outward. I myself wanted to mix together with the entire image around. Something unusual was in the celebration in all of their faces, in the passion of their speech and voices, in the scent of the field which carried through the gates, in the light of the sun, which had begun to set.

One after another they went up on the stage and spoke. Told about themselves and about their lives. Spoke truth. Not concealing their inner worries and doubts. Doubts not in connection to the essence of their lives, to the land, to the kibbutz, but in relation to themselves. In relation to Eretz Yisroel, to their work on the land, to the manner of communist communal living, there is no doubt in them. On the contrary: Every word of theirs about the earth, about plough and water, about planting forest and vineyard, had breathed with belief, with full readiness to merge themselves with the earth, the land. Each word emerged from a pure heart, now with a cry and now with a stammer — just barely did the lips move, as in a whispered prayer. But about themselves, they often spoke as though in a tone of pain, and often as in a tone of guilt. Of what did their guilt consist? That there was not enough peace in their hearts, not enough joy, and that one could not be master over the matter, and the blood in their veins sometimes burned to rush.

And of what else did their guilt consist? — In that one cannot bring all the Jews of the world here, and that they themselves must be the bearers and effectors of the redemptive thought. Why does it come to them? Why does it come to them to be the saviours, when all Jews are tormented in the world in pain and in abasement? So, approximately, they argued to themselves and to me.

Something ecstatic and also legendary was in their argument, and also much bright child-likeness.

It reminded me of the purity and the legendary piousness of the first revolution in the once-was Tsarist Russia, of those wholesome experiences in the hidden, illegal presses where girls and boys used to work together, to sleep together in one bed and not touch one another over the span of years; of that material heroism, when people went with song to the gallows and, to the last minute of life, did not cease to worry if they hadn’t, God forbid, with a single doubt weakened their belief, if they hadn’t exerted enough courage over their last road, if perhaps they were not at peace being the one put to the test, the purified ones.

Their speeches were for me new and revelatory and — entirely different from the speeches of the Israeli city-dwellers. No trace of arrogance and boast; oftentimes still more: Bashfulness and falling-quiet amongst them. Young life suddenly feels not strong enough in itself, and it pleads: Empower me, support me, someone help me. Save me.

This cry of the youthful heart breaks out and rushes over all the fields, all the garden beds, knocking on all the windows, fluttering over everyone’s heads, until it scolds itself, until batters itself enough, becomes tired, rests itself and comes back to the young heart, sinks down into the depths and slumbers.

Ought I say that I didn’t hear any weeping in their believing speeches?

No, I won’t say that. Because I indeed heard weeping in their voices. And this made yet more evident the truth of their hearts.

The time flew quickly and with it — the day. The evening fell quickly on the boiling wings of the khamsin.

The talk of the youth had finally begun to openly burn along with their hearts. All were infected with the desire to open their hearts. But it was already late. We needed to go eat dinner and then prepare for the real holiday, for the coming together of all the surrounding kibbutzes — an assembly of thousands under the open night sky in Tel Yosef.

The opened, though not unloaded, hearts did not close and did not lock. The words were silenced in a short time, but not cut off. Both the words and the hearts remained open in certain tension and full belief that soon something wonderful would happen, and that which lay in the depths of their hearts would tear free with unbridled force and freedom.

— H. Leivick, Tog, 29 December, 1937

Ein Harod from the air in 1937, borrowed from the LOC.

1. A celebration marking the conclusion of a unit of study, traditionally those such as finishing a book of the Talmud, etc.