In many kibbutzim, the holidays are a big deal – an opportunity to come together as a community. And naturally, when you have a community like the kibbutz, which takes great pride in communal living and a shared way of life, any opportunity to gather becomes significant. Holiday traditions in the Israeli kibbutz range from the endearing to the bizarre. My childhood was filled with things I used to take for granted: how everyone built a massive Sukkah together, or the fire displays on Hanukkah. But above all, kibbutznikim (the name used for members of the Kibbutz) take one holiday more seriously than any other, and that of course is – Shavuot.
Shavuot is the holiday of receiving the Torah, but in the kibbutz, it becomes something a little different. Historically – especially in the early kibbutz movement, which was largely secular and socialist (and still is) – there was a conscious effort to reinterpret Jewish holidays. Naturally, Shavuot was the perfect candidate. Even in its original form, it had agricultural roots. In ancient times, Shavuot marked the grain harvest, as well as being known as the holiday of the first fruits. It became perfect for the story kibbutzim try to tell: one rooted in agricultural success and the relationship between us and the land we cultivate. And so, in secular kibbutzim across Israel, Shavuot no longer mentioned the receiving of the Torah, and the holiday became more and more about the land.
For the kibbutzim, communities largely based on agriculture, it’s an opportunity to celebrate the year that has come and passed, and all that we have made together. Our connection to the land. The community celebrates its agricultural produce, often marked by a procession showcasing the yields of the year. It changes from one community to the next. If a kibbutz has a sewing factory, they’ll bring colorful fabrics and threads; if it has a dairy factory, like the one I grew up on, they’ll show bottles of milk – or sometimes try to walk a small calf onto the stage, to the delight of the local children. From lettuce to grains to onions, community members step onto a makeshift stage with baskets of produce.
One of the more delightful customs is the traditional “baby dance.” The babies born that year are brought onto the stage, usually by their fathers, who dance with them in baby carriers to traditional Israeli folk music. In celebrating the first fruits of the year, these unique Israeli communities don’t forget to show off the sweetest of yields: babies, of course.
The celebration itself, on the main stage, is often marked by a white color palette. Bales of hay decorate an open field, and even a tractor might make an appearance, further driving the agricultural angle home. Every year, the day before Shavuot, the community would gather together to make hundreds of flower crowns to adorn our heads for the main event the following day. And if the atmosphere sounds familiar, it’s because it is. It wasn’t until I found myself in Stockholm for a traditional Midsummer celebration that I realized, to my delight, how truly pagan it all was.
The kibbutz Shavuot festival would end on a high note: a massive meal, often in the dining room. On any other day of the week, people sit next to each other at long tables for three meals a day in that room, starting from 6:30 in the morning for breakfast. Lunch comes early, dictated by the sun and the work schedule, at 11:30 sharp (to this day, I can’t have a late lunch), and dinner starts at 18:30 – maybe 18:15 if you’re being naughty.
But on Shavuot, the dining room transforms. The chairs are gone, and across the tables stretches a buffet for the ages – ranging from cheese (a staple of the holiday), to dozens of types of bread, fruits, cakes, wines, and even a few unfortunate massive fish ( typically salmon), adorned with herbs. The whole thing is meant to be the highlight of the year in the kibbutz, and it often draws criticism, both from inside and outside the community, for the massive cost spent on that ostentatious display of wealth. Kibbutznikim are known as hard workers, but also have a reputation for reaping what they sow.
I can definitely say I grew up in the middle of nowhere – a barren desert soil that shaped me, probably more than I know. I don’t think that when my grandfather came to the middle of the Arava desert in the ’50s, he imagined that the fruits of his labor, and his numerous attempts to grow fruit trees and make flowers bloom under a harsh sun, would result in a massive meal and pagan rituals set to Israeli folk music.
In 1953, Chief of Staff Moshe Dayan and Minister of Finance Levi Eshkol famously declared: enough with the agricultural experiments – there is no chance of growing anything in this desert. However, that didn’t deter my grandfather and his group of idealistic young friends. They persevered.
A panicked delegation from the kibbutz movement went to Ben-Gurion, who was at Sde Boker, to try to reverse the decision. Ben-Gurion, accompanied by his wife Pola, traveled “to the ends of the world” to see with his own eyes what was happening. The couple encountered a very enthusiastic group of pioneers and small plots of green fields. Ben-Gurion was convinced. He persuaded the leadership to send a group of experienced farmers to reinforce my grandfather and his friends and continue settlement in the Arava more professionally. And so, with a sense of resolve, 40 km north of Eilat, they grew cantaloupes, mangoes, and much more.
Today, somehow, that spirit of renewal and at times blind persistence remains in many kibbutzim across Israel. Even after the last few years, as things have changed tremendously for our communities after October 7th, our Shavuot remains the ideal encapsulation of the land of milk and honey materialised before our very eyes each year. How? I’m unsure. What I do know, based on my life as a child in the middle of nowhere, is that endless mornings in the fields, laying down irrigation systems, and packing onions in 40-degree heat made the fruits on the Shavuot table that much sweeter.
