Two afternoons off to work on my writing and this is all I have to show for it.

My roommate, Jenn, painted a beautiful mural of the Jordanian hills overlooking the date orchards with some OTZMA-esque footprints in the sand on the side of the volunteer office as a way of leaving our group’s mark on the kibbutz. More importantly, she got like three days off to work on it! I was jealous of all the attention she received, plus I felt that my personal addition to the mural (sponge-painting the center of a small hole in the wood) didn’t quite give justice to all the hard work I’ve put in over the last three months. I approached my volunteer coordinator with an idea.
Shana: I don’t want to leave without making a significant contribution to the kibbutz.
Aliza: But you’ve given us so much in the cheder ochel!
[Awkward silence]
Shana: But, I want to make a contribution using one of my skills… specifically my writing skills.
Aliza: I can give you two afternoons off.
Shana: I’ll take it!
As part of the deal, she lined up four interviews so that I could ask some relatively articulate members about all the juicy gossip and then submit something to the kibbutz newsletter – the English edition, of course. She recommended the oh-so-original topic, “A Day in the Life of a Kibbutz Ketura Volunteer.” I wanted to write an article a little more imaginative – maybe along the lines of a scandal involving drug-trafficking in Jordan or a deformed child sold into slavery or hormonal testing in the dairy, to give a few of my best ideas.
I decided that first and foremost, I would do some detective work on the financial structure of the kibbutz. The thing is, I’ve been around the country to a number of kibbutzim in the last several months, but for the most part, you’ve seen one hippie commune, you’ve seen them all. They’re all each other’s doppelgangers, with the same, simple architecture and retro playground structures; the identical, sprawling crop fields next to the rundown dairy or chicken coop; and the campy, cartoon-like murals on every building that are either painted by the same inept artist or by the interchangeable hand of a five-year-old. But there’s one aspect that sets Ketura apart from all the rest – our cheder ochel is still completely free and all-you-can-eat.
But how could this be? In most kibbutz dining halls you either have to weigh your plate or add up the value of each item at the cash register, a process that is not only degrading to fat kids but also conducive to stinginess and, in extreme cases, eating disorders. What makes the Ketura dining experience so much more liberal and satisfying than all the other kibbutzim? I started by asking my interviewee about outside income, specifically, the percentage of one’s paycheck that is given to the kibbutz. I expected it to be fifteen percent, or, no, more likely thirty. Fifty percent at most. The answer threw me back a few notches.
One hundred percent.
Sweet Jesus! And what do members receive in exchange for their salaries and their souls?
Housing, food, laundry, college education, vacation abroad every four years, full healthcare, access to cars, and various budgets for travel, clothing, entertainment, cultural activities, and basically every aspect of daily life you can think of – all covered by the kibbutz. Furthermore, everyone receives the same benefits, regardless of the size of his or her monetary contribution.
I widened my eyes to take in the whole picture, ripped straight from the works of Karl Marx himself. My heart skipped a beat as I realized the raw, Soviet truth of the situation.
This. Is. Communism.
Now, I should make one thing clear. When I write using terms such as “commune,” “comrade,” “chevre,” or even “socialized healthcare,” it’s always meant to be a little tongue-in-cheek – I half-accept these concepts as truths, but also pray wholeheartedly that they remain words on a computer screen and nothing more. But this, this is no joke: this is communism, existing in real life on a real kibbutz, as I’ve been sitting back with my eyes only halfway open for the last three months, completely ignorant of it all.
Just that moment, everything seemed to change right in front of my face. Is it just my imagination, or does the old, rusty fire truck in the kindergarten playground appear to be a bolder shade of red? Are the trees blossoming or are little red flags blooming all over the place? Suddenly, the kibbutzniks aren’t the harmless hippies I always thought they were. The old woman with the squinty brow who doesn’t speak any English – communist. The small boy with puffy cheeks who always politely asks for extra chicken nuggets – communist. The short, obscenely pregnant lady with seven children already – communist. The women who don’t shave their armpits and their not-exactly-trophy-but-at-the-very-least-presentable husbands – communists. Each and every one of them, dirty communists. Even the dogs walk with a more noticeable swagger, alluding to the fact that they wag their tails not for one owner, but for the entire community as a whole.
But it goes beyond that. The doctor and the gardener, the teacher and the bus driver, the nuclear physicist and the anthropologist – they all live side by side in houses allocated only according to seniority, completely irrespective of income or wealth. Bah, what a headache! And their children – all of them wearing the same ugly clothes, receiving the same public education, and carrying a debit card linked to the same communist bank account. It’s sickening, and definitely much worse than I could have ever imagined.
Working in the dining hall is a whole new experience with this knowledge. Amidst the buzz of people conversing over lunch, all I can hear is one repeated whisper, somehow surfacing over the background noise: “From each according to his ability, and to each according to his need.” I now size up all the teenagers as they return for seconds and thirds of beef goulash, wondering if they really put in enough work today to justify taking an extra plateful away from the community. And what did those toddlers contribute to the greater good? I don’t see them laboring to the best of their abilities, but they certainly seem to be hurling corn and rice all over MY freshly mopped floor with as much strength as they can muster up.
I wish I could enlighten these drones! I just want to ask them if they’ve ever wished they could own a private car or a summer house in the North. Don’t they realize how much easier life could be with a home washer and dryer unit? And a dishwasher, for G-d’s sake – they simply don’t know how hard they have it!
This is straight-up communism like I’ve never seen before. I trust no one.