The Blogs: Israel’s Lost Soul: From Unity to Division

The kibbutz began as a bold, earthy dream, carved into Ottoman Palestine’s soil by Jewish socialists who saw labor as a path to a just society. In the early 20th century, founders like Aaron David Gordon, Yitzhak Tabenkin, Berl Katznelson, Golda Meir, and David Ben-Gurion brought a fervor beyond mere settlement.

Gordon, arriving in 1904, traded his philosopher’s pen for a plow, preaching “labor Zionism”—redemption through work, a new humanity free of class or creed. Tabenkin reached Palestine in 1912 and co-founded Degania, the first kibbutz, infusing it with Marxist zeal as a revolutionary outpost of solidarity. Katznelson, there by 1909, wove socialism into small, democratic “kvutzot” where every voice shaped the future. Fresh from America in 1921, Meir lived this ethos at Kibbutz Merhavia, scrubbing pots with fierce equality. Ben-Gurion, at Sejera in 1906, soaked in kibbutz life and later penned poetic lines about the land’s call: “This earth, barren and wide, whispers to us—/ A silent promise beneath the sun’s gaze,/ To turn dust to fields, to wake the sleeping stone,/ Here we stand, hands in soil, hearts in bloom.” Under the Ottomans’ lenient oversight, this vision might have woven Arab neighbors into its fabric. But Britain’s 1917 Mandate sowed division, and Israel, inheriting that fractured ground, let the kibbutz’s inclusive soul fade—nowhere more evident than in our neglect of Neve Shalom/Wahat al-Salam, a mixed community we’ve treated as a pariah rather than a promise. Had we nurtured such models, we might face a more peaceful Israel today.

In those Ottoman years, the kibbutz’s socialism found fertile soil. The empire, teetering toward collapse, governed lightly, leaving room for Jews, Arabs, and Christians to coexist in fluid proximity. Early kibbutzniks embraced this openness—Degania traded with Arab villages, and the Hashomer militia hired Arab guards by 1913. Gordon’s writings hinted at a universal renewal, Tabenkin’s collectives could have spanned creeds, and Katznelson’s democratic ideals invited broader inclusion. Meir’s practical socialism saw labor as a bridge, while Ben-Gurion’s verses cast the land as a partner in rebirth for all who worked it.

The Second Aliyah (1904-1914) swelled their ranks with 40,000 idealists, planting 20 kibbutzim by 1918. Under this lax canopy, integration wasn’t a fantasy—it was a seedling, poised to grow into a shared endeavor.

Britain’s arrival uprooted that potential. The 1917 Balfour Declaration promised Jews a homeland, unsettling Arab communities, while Mandate policies favored Jewish settlers, displacing tenants and quelling resistance with force. The 1921 Jaffa riots erupted, a bloody harbinger, and the 1936-39 Arab Revolt, sparked by these imbalances, deepened the rift. Britain had no stake in a united Palestine—cooperation might have challenged their rule—so they sharpened ethnic lines. Kibbutzim, once outward-looking, turned inward: Tabenkin armed them, Meir raised funds for defense, and Ben-Gurion strategized survival. Socialism bent under security’s weight; the universal shrank to the tribal. By 1948, when Israel emerged, kibbutzim stood as Zionist strongholds, their early promise of broader unity dimmed.

Israel could have charted a different course, but it largely echoed Britain’s divisive legacy. Ben-Gurion, now prime minister, carried kibbutz roots into statehood but prioritized nation-building over inclusivity. Meir, leading by 1969, kept socialism in her bones yet didn’t push kibbutzim to widen their gates. Their numbers peaked—270 by the 1960s, housing 7% of Israelis—but the communal flame flickered. Privatization took hold in the 1980s, replacing shared dining halls with individual paychecks. Arab Israelis, now 20% of the population, faced a kibbutz world that rarely welcomed them.

Though legally free to join, community votes often barred them—sometimes citing “security,” as a 1983 report noted. A 2008 Arab member or a 2024 X post remains an exception, not a trend. The 1950s “Arab Pioneers”—Arabs working kibbutz fields—offered a fleeting echo of Gordon’s vision, but it faded as division solidified. Today, 90% of Arab Israelis live apart, a legacy Britain seeded and Israel left unplowed.

This drift finds a poignant mirror in Neve Shalom/Wahat al-Salam—“Oasis of Peace”—a village founded in the 1970s by Bruno Hussar, an Egyptian-born Jew-turned-monk, to prove coexistence was possible. On a Latrun hilltop, 370 residents (as of 2022) share a bilingual school, celebrate each other’s holidays, and face tensions together. It’s a living contrast to the kibbutz’s trajectory—a place where Jewish and Arab kids play basketball, not just coexist. Yet, Israel has failed this community, treating it more like an oddity than a blueprint. Hussar started alone in a bus, joined by five families in 1978—four Jewish, one Palestinian—camping in tents. Early funding came from abroad, not the state; it took until 1994, after foreign pressure, for Israel to grant subsidies and legal status—a tepid nod, not an embrace. Unlike the kibbutzim, which got robust backing to embody Zionist ideals, Neve Shalom’s shared life vision struggled for support.

This isn’t mere neglect—it’s a choice. Israel’s political culture often casts Neve Shalom as naive or suspect. Hardliners dismiss it as a “fantasy,” while resources flow to settlements or security, not mixed villages.

During the 2023 Gaza war, when unity could have been a lifeline, Neve Shalom’s model got little state spotlight—X posts showed Jewish- Arab solidarity elsewhere but made no push to amplify this example.

Funding remains a trickle; the community leans on its hotel, workshops, and international donors, not Israeli largesse. This attitude—treating Neve Shalom like a pariah—has driven its drift from Zionism. Residents accept Israel—they vote, pay taxes—but their secular, bicultural ethos clashes with a state leaning into religious and ethnic silos. A 2022 resident’s X quip—“We’re not anti-Zionist, just post-Zionist”—says it: They’ve outgrown a vision that excludes them.

The story could have been different had Israel modeled and funded such communities. Imagine dozens of Neve Shaloms by 2025, backed by state grants—Jewish and Arab kids growing up bilingual, not barricaded. The School for Peace, which trained 35,000 by the late 1990s, could have become a national program, reaching millions. Terror, which feeds on alienation, might lose steam—studies suggest integration curbs extremism by addressing grievances. The 2023 Hamas attack could have been less devastating if trust, not walls, defined borders. Instead of 20% of citizens living in parallel worlds, we’d have a web of mixed communities, softening the us-versus-them divide, which would place less Arab youth at risk, a security risk we cannot afford. Britain sowed division; Israel didn’t have to nurture it.

Why didn’t we? Fear—security hawks see mixed villages as risks. Politics—Right-leaning coalitions since the 1990s favor settlers over peaceniks. And inertia—Zionism’s shift from socialism to nationalism left no room to reimagine the kibbutz as inclusive. Neve Shalom’s endurance—decades without collapse, even through intifadas—proves it works, yet Israel sidelines it. Had we invested a billion shekels since 1994, matching settlement budgets, we’d see a less tribal, more peaceful state—a Zionism that invites, not isolates.

Our fractured present—coalitions teetering, ultra-Orthodox clashing with secular, Jews and Arabs wary—screams the cost. The kibbutz could have been our spine, echoing Gordon’s toil, Tabenkin’s collectives, Katznelson’s voice, Meir’s grit, and Ben-Gurion’s poetic love of the land. Neve Shalom could have been its heir, a modern unifier. In the Ottoman twilight, integration beckoned; Britain shattered it, and Israel let it go. Can we reclaim that soul—kibbutzim and mixed villages as places of trust, where terror fades in belonging? Or have we strayed too far from the founders’ dream?