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April 2001 Issue

Enjoying the Silence at Kibbutz Neot Semadar

By Daniela Gerson

Within the wooden, eight-sided building the intensity was palpable. The hundred or so individuals sat upright at desks facing towards a central wood burning stove, with hot drinks grasped in their hands and with their attention intently focused on the subject being discussed. The community of Kibbutz Neot Semadar was conducting a meeting in the sukkah.

It's not a temporary structure, you can't see the stars through the roof, and it definitely does not resemble the kind of sukkah I built in my backyard during Sukkot. But deep in the desert of Israel, it houses Jews in a new sort of wandering: an intellectual exploration of the root of the human condition.

Clearly not your typical kibbutz, what exactly is Neot Semadar? I first heard about the kibbutz from a couple of volunteers I met on a bus ride between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. By then I had spent an intense three months traveling and studying on my own in Israel and was ready for a break.

The young, dreadlocked Austrian woman with multiple piercings described a small and beautiful kibbutz in the southern Negev, replete with organic food, varied work, and even Israeli volunteers. Her muscular, long haired, American boyfriend added that the kibbutz was definitely a little "different" but that I needed to be there to understand what that meant. Despite being a bit put off by his words, to my tired ears the place sounded almost too good to be true.

A week later I got off a bus in the middle of the desert. The sun had gone down hours before, but there was a sense of extensive open space, and the moon was just beginning to shine light on the hills in the distance. Meir, a man in his fifties with a familiar face that told of many years working in the desert sun, introduced himself as being one of the members responsible for orienting volunteers at Neot Semadar. Over a late dinner of homemade soup and an eggplant spread, Meir related to me some of the history of Neot Semadar.

In 1989, after years of meetings for discussion and experiments with communal work in Jerusalem, around eighty individuals packed up their belongings, sold their homes, and headed south. They settled at an abandoned kibbutz located in a desolate and stunning site sixty kilometers north of Eilat, framed by the dusty, rolling hills of the Arava desert and with the towering Edom mountains of Jordan visible in the distance.

There the group, dominated by artists, was determined to construct an environment where they could investigate themselves as individuals and what it really means to live as a community. This is, in effect, is what differentiates Neot Semadar from every other kibbutz. Rather than its core being traditional Zionist ideology, it considers itself a school to the study of the human condition.

According to Meir, a core idea is that the individual is in constant conflict with himself and others. If one can accept this basic fact, one will begin to see the situation of his or her life more clearly. Definitely feeling the need for clarity in my own life, I was intrigued: "How do you investigate these issues?" I asked eagerly. Meir hesitated, "We consider them," was his cryptic response. I was not going to leave things at that and pressed on: "but how?" Meir let the question hang in the air. It was my first hint that there is a different rhythm at Neot Semadar.

While geographically well within Israel's borders, Neot Semadar's unique nature often defies national norms. For example, in contrast to the commotion that is an integral part of Israeli life, quiet reigns within the borders of the kibbutz. There are no cell phones ringing, no horns blaring, no people shouting, and no radios sounding out the hourly prelude to the (almost always bad) news. Even more striking is that each day begins at 5:45 in the morning with fifteen minutes of communal silence and during meals speech is limited to essential conversation.

While I appreciated the break from urban life, at times the silence struck me as excessive. With each day that passed, however, I learned a greater appreciation for the silence. Primarily, it was a space for personal introspection. I also observed that silence had the potential to convey a more powerful message than words. For example, at a breakfast table resplendent with a spread of organic vegetables, goat cheese, homemade bread, and olive oil, all products of the kibbutz, speech may be limited, but in the context of silence, a small smile is able to speak volumes.

Introspection is by no means the only route to investigation at the kibbutz. Their intention is to explore how the individual relates to his fellow man through communal living. As far as I could see, essentially every aspect of the way they have constructed their lives leads to self-awareness as part of a community. A few examples are abstinence from drugs as a means to foster clear thinking, frequently changing work assignments, switching homes every two years, and group reflection after performing the Shabbat responsibilities. Most of all, it is the meetings, which are open only to members with the exception of a few holiday services a year, which serve as a focal point for investigation.

As a volunteer, I was only invited to attend one meeting, but I felt that just by being in the Neot Semadar environment I became a student by absorption. While working in the vineyards, citrus orchard, kitchen, or vegetable garden, the considerable time for personal reflection was paired with exchanges with kibbutz members that opened new ways of thinking.

The atmosphere of investigation at Neot Semadar runs deep; peeling eggs for breakfast was conductive to a discussion on the source of happiness and the constantly shifting work schedule acted as a metaphor for one's response to situations beyond control of the individual. Within this environment I found that the frequent silence that defined kibbutz life gradually became rich with reflection. No clear answers were found, but I was more at peace than I had been in a long time.

Some sort of fate (or luck) guided me to the kibbutz. It was a truly wonderful experience where I actually felt my outlook shift. In the early days of the kibbutz, an ideal expressed was that "Israel needs a new type of pioneers, that is internal pioneering, and that is what Neot Semadar is all about."

For now, the kibbutz as a community is content to keep their pioneering spirit contained to their desert site. But I needed to move on. Now I am faced with a real challenge: to find a way to retain the sense of peaceful self-examination amidst the commotion of Israeli society. If I can, perhaps Neot Semadar is succeeding in at once remaining isolated from the external situation and affecting individuals in the outside world by their brand of "internal pioneering."

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