“I lived in a Kibbutz when I was 9”.
Many people do not know that when I turned 9, my Dad brought one of his craziest ideas to the dinner table – "let's move to a Kibbutz." You can imagine the face of all of us digesting the idea of moving from the home we love where all of our friends live close to the middle of nowhere full of crickets EVERYWHERE!
(Kibbutz Dining area - we shared every dinner meal with all with the families who lived there at the time).
For the people who do not know my Dad, he is a daydreamer. He won't hesitate to share his imaginary scenarios or possibilities with you. He is 50 (wink wink, welcome, Dad), but his ability to find alternate ways is beyond imaginable, and he loves the idea of moving elsewhere to find adventures. We moved and stayed for a whole year in an environment we did not know how to conquer or approach.
A few months ago, my Dad wrote me to let me know that "The Kibbutz" was going to celebrate the anniversary of its opening. He asked me to write something to describe my experience, and this is what I sent him:
"From an angle, it means a great theme of conversation in job interviews, friends and even family that do not know the details of living in The Kibbutz. It is always a great starting point in a boring social event.
From another part, it was a challenging time, and for a 9-year-old girl, it was confusing. I learned along with my sister that education does not come from an institution or from sitting hours to learn the same as every child in your classroom. It comes from sharing with people of different ages and backgrounds to find a common purpose. For me, it was learning how to build a crop in hand with my parents, pick up bee boxes to install them inside the greenhouse and observe my mom creating her first cheese and yogurt and selling it in the city. It was a real-life Montessori classroom for everyone who lived in it.
On the other hand (the side where many people who live there won't tell you), it was living in a context where people from different backgrounds and cultures unite, argue, fight, negotiate and verbally hurt each other while sharing the same time and space. It meant understanding where our tolerance level goes to the unpolitical interchange of ideas or language manners. It is mentally, emotionally and physically exhausting.
The Kibbutz is the part of my life that divides my family's story, the before and after. It was the time that helped us define who we wanted to be as a family.
After all, I can say everyone in my family is grateful for the experience we will carry for life. And my Dad is searching for his new adventure (good luck, Mom).