Alef: The NEXT Conversation

Oh, Pioneers: Urban Kibbutzniks Cultivate Community in Brooklyn

By Victor Wishna

As another Friday evening sets in, the approach of Shabbat brings a sense of pause and anticipation to the members of Kvutzat Orev. In the kitchen, Michal keeps one eye on the oven and another on the stove. Eugenia and Yotam chop vegetables and slice bread.

A few feet away, silhouetted by the waning sunlight through their bedroom window, Daniel and Karen pore over the week’s parsha—the portion of the Torah designated to be read on each Shabbat—in preparation for the evening’s program. Tal, meanwhile, greets the first of more than a dozen guests who will file in for dinner.

The residents of Kvutzat Orev refer to themselves as a kibbutz, but don’t look for them, say, in the shadows of the Golan Heights or anywhere near the river Jordan. They live much closer to New York City’s East River, in Crown Heights, Brooklyn—a neighborhood populated largely by African-Americans and Caribbean immigrants that is also home to a sizable Hasidic community. The shadows cast here by the late evening, pre-Shabbat light reflect the contours of the once proud limestone town homes that line the avenue.

It’s not the least bit unusual for twentysomethings in New York to share space. But besides a narrow duplex apartment, these six roommates also share a sense of mission, a set of social justice ideals—even a bank account. Reared in the summer camps and afterschool programs of Hashomer Hatzair (literally, “The Youth Guard”), the century-old socialist-Zionist youth movement, the half-dozen friends are, in their own way, holding true to a collective way of life that once spawned dozens of kibbutzim in the Land of Israel.

Whereas Israel’s early pioneers set out to revitalize the land seed by seed, the founders of this urban model are cultivating community. (In fact, the backyard vegetable garden was recently covered over with artificial turf to create an extra gathering space for the many friends and friends-of-friends who visit.) They very much see themselves as heirs to that legacy of reclamation. “We’re no longer draining swamps,” says Tal Beery, who spends his workdays as director for one of Hashomer’s summer camps. “But we like to say that we are draining social swamps— the idea of building an egalitarian, trusting, productive, loving community.”

Shabbat is essential to that mission and plays a key role in the weekly rhythm here. Guests are commonplace; Orev members play host to everyone from family to friends, old and new, to members of other Jewish youth movements. Orev is actually one of three urban kibbutzim in New York City and Toronto, group homes where young people embrace the concept of community to the extreme. But the idea of having some friends over on Shabbat, sharing each other’s company and cooking, is something anyone can do, regardless of their living situation.

In Hebrew, kvutza means group or collective; orev means crow or raven, the bird that Noah sent out from the ark to look for dry land before later sending a dove. Although it was the dove that famously returned with an olive branch, some Torah commentators suggest the orev served a vital function in the search. “One of the morals in that story is the significance of playing an active role in a processthat you believe in,” says Eugenia Manwelyan, “even if you’re not the one who will ultimately make the great accomplishment.”

The formal history of Kvutzat Orev begins in 2006, when the friends—some in college, some just out—moved to Israel, as part of a larger group, and established an urban kibbutz in a mixed development town where they taught drama classes to Arab and Jewish children. By the fall of 2007, they agreed to relocate to New York, partly because they saw an opportunity to take what they had practiced in Israel and apply it in somewhat less hospitable environs—Orev members joke that crows and ravens are known for being able to thrive in harsh conditions.

Tal says that sharing one bank account for all the members is crucial to their mission-oriented approach—it removes all the “discomforts” of discrepancies in income. Karen Isaacs is a fulltime grad student, Eugenia puts in time at a café and does event planning, Michal Jalowski works “about a hundred jobs,” Daniel Roth teaches kindergarten at a

Jewish day school, and Yotam Moran works with Tal in the Manhattan office of Hashomer Hatzair as its North American program director.

On this particular spring Shabbat, some twenty guests are planned, all of whom will be counselors at Hashomer Hatzair’s summer camps in upstate New York and Ontario. Upstairs, the many pizzas Michal began preparing three hours earlier are just about ready—there’s a mixture of vegetarian pizzas, with and without cheese, along with more inventive hummus-and-cheese creations. The kvutza gets much of its groceries from a local co-op, organic and locally grown when possible. Four of the six are vegetarians, with one dairyintolerant “lactard,” and everyone’s needs are met.

Eugenia and Michal do a lot of the shopping and cooking, but there’s no “chore wheel” here; everyone seems to know when to pitch in. “That’s one of our biggest strengths, that we have a sense of responsibility to each other,” Tal says. Michal, pulling another pizza from the oven, agrees: “Preparing food for just yourself when other people are around is definitely a faux pas.”

As tonight’s guests make themselves comfortable, there is a sense of spirited devotion in the air, but the kvutza’s style of Shabbat observance is anything but traditional. Says Daniel: “We are constantly recreating traditions for ourselves, and we strive to balance past, present, and future.”

When the time comes for the evening rituals, not a single prayer is spoken. Instead, Daniel asks for two volunteers to make a dedication as they light each of the two votives set out as Shabbat candlesticks. (“I light this candle to celebrate the connection between generations,” Karen offers— tonight’s crowd ranges in age from 15 to 27.) A pint glass of wine is then passed around, with each guest offering up a salient thought or two before taking a sip. Most touch on uncertainty and change, from a high school senior’s looming college decision to a teen’s excitement over her new cockapoo, Timbo.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about pirates this week…” offers a shaggy young man draped over a stuffed chair. Daniel raises the challah and offers a reflection in lieu of the blessing: “[Making] the challah requires time and space, fields and seasons. Time and space are also the foundations of community.” There is a silent amen.

These traditions, too, will be open to reinvention in weeks to come. Another Friday night might begin with a song in the round, itself an act of community in which everyone gets a personalized “Shabbat Shalom” set to music. The point, Tal explains, is that nothing should ever become routine.

Even the apartment the kvutza has called home for the last year and a half will soon become a casualty of change. Notes on a dry-erase board in the kitchen map out different scenarios for moving and expanding the community. Tal says they now have a group of about 15 people interested in living together—if not in one apartment or house, then hopefully near the same intersection or subway stop. “The really revolutionary thing is that people don’t often get to live close to the people they care about,” he says. “What we’re doing is making that a priority. There is a real quality of life shift when you live close to your closest friends.”

“We are an intentional community,” Tal adds.

And whether or not everyone would opt for the lifestyle they’ve chosen, it’s hard to find a dictionary definition of community—“a unified body of individuals;” “people with common interests living in a common location;” “a group linked by a common policy”—that doesn’t apply rightly to those who cohabitate in Apartment 1L. By bringing in outsiders, as many as 40 on a single Friday night, Daniel says they can share that community for an hour or two and plant seeds every week. “To be a Jew is to take responsibility for others,” he says.

“Shabbat is all about stopping, reflecting, bringing people together,” Tal echoes. “To me, faith is about community, coming together over a shared legacy, a shared story—and food! It’s amazing.”

He shrugs, as if what he’s just said should be—no, is—the most obvious thing in the world. “On Shabbat, everything just stops, and you’re together,” he says. “That’s the point.”

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Chatsworth, CA (818)

By Eli Raber

I grew up in Chatsworth, CA, which is known for three things – Charles Manson, the adult film industry, and for being the current home of Kevin Federline. Chatsworth, or as we called it, “Chatsworth-less,” is located in the San Fernando Valley and is part of the City of Los Angeles.

I attended a Jewish day school through middle school, and begged my parents to allow me to spread my wings and attend public high school. After much negotiating, I was allowed to enroll in Chatsworth High. For the first time, I was immersed in the rainbow of the human experience, and not trapped in a bubble of the Jewish day school existence that I was used to. My school was largely white, but had a growing Asian population, a substantial Latino presence, and a small number of black students that were mostly bussed in from L.A. proper. I thought it was great to have friends of all hues, but tensions ran high and there were several race brawls throughout my time there.

For the most part, I was embraced for being Jewish. When I didn’t show up for football practice on Rosh Hashanah, my teammates jokingly asked when the next Jewish holiday was so they could skip practice too. But I wasn’t always so comfortable. Before taking the field prior to each game, the coach or one of my teammates would lead us in prayer. It always ended with “in Jesus’ name.” I was afraid to say anything and quietly endured my embarrassment. I would quickly say the Shema to myself after the team prayer, hoping that would absolve me of my guilt.

Sometimes, there was racial tension on the team. The whites saw me not as a Jew but as another white, and the blacks on my team saw me as a Jew – a minority like them. I was nervous about being put in the middle of these two racial groups since I had friends in both circles. My teammates recognized the tension and would, at times, come to me to mediate between the two groups – I soon earned the nickname “Rabbi Raber.”

After my sophomore year, I went to Israel for two months on a teen tour. I connected with the land and people of Israel and began to take possession of my Jewish identity. I remember visiting Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum, and walking outside the children’s memorial, seeing the stunning panoramic views of Jerusalem. I recall Shabbat on the beach and working on a Kibbutz for three weeks. I learned my name, Eli, had a strong and powerful Hebrew meaning, and was not the “boy named Sue” situation I thought it was. The trip gave me a sense of pride and helped me forge a connection to my people’s history. I remember standing on top of Masada and for the first time feeling, and believing, that I was a link in the Jewish historical chain.

Shortly after returning from the trip, I was back at school and enjoying my new sense of pride for being Jewish. Then, one day, as I was eating lunch with the usual cast of characters, a few members of the white supremacist gang called my name and started walking towards me from across the quad. My mind started racing. “What had I done to piss these guys off?” I thought. “Man, I am in so much trouble.” As I turned my head to gauge the reactions of my friends, I realized they had scattered…I was all alone.

There were about six of them dressed in full regalia. When they approached, I stood up and the leader said, “Raber, something’s different about you this year. We want you to join our crew.”

I was shocked; I thought they were coming to get me, but as it turned out, what they wanted was for me to enlist! My brain was scrambling to think of what to say in response. Obviously, I was not going to join their neo-Nazi gang but how was I supposed to turn them down? Could I blame my parents? Could I tell them I didn’t want to join any gang, no offense to theirs? What excuse could I use? Then, a bit of calm washed over me, and I realized it was natural to be scared, that I was who I was.

“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but I cannot join your gang – I am a Jew.”

Their eyes lit up like the 4th of July. My “fight or flight” response kicked in, and I wondered which one of them would punch me first, where could I escape to, and damn it, where did my friends go!

The thugs turned to each other, had a mini-conference, and turned back to me. “That’s okay,” they said “we’ll make an exception for you and agree not to hate Jews anymore, we’ll just hate everyone else.”

On some level, I had to appreciate their level of organizational flexibility, but I informed these confused young men that their gang would lose credibility with the other neo-Nazis if they had a Jew amongst them. This also meant I had to turn down their “generous” offer to sport their classic look: white-laced Doc Marten boots and red suspenders. They seemed to think I had a point and decided it was best not to pursue me as a member. Over the next two years they left me alone, and I never had any problems with them at school.

My trip to Israel changed my perspective about Judaism – I no longer saw myself as a “Jew by birth,” but rather as a Jew by choice. It gave me a new confidence not to hide who I was, which would have been really easy in the tense, racially-charged environment of my high school. Looking back, it was not at my Bar Mitzvah that I became a man, it was at that moment when I was able to face the challenge and muster the courage, despite the possible repercussions, to proclaim, “I am a Jew.”

This is a lesson I have carried into adulthood – by connecting to my past, land, and people, I can accomplish incredible things. I can even change the minds of neo-Nazis.

Photo by thivierr, licensed under Creative Commons.

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Scottsdale, AZ (480)

From Jewish Melting Pot to Pioneers

By Joshua Schechter

When I was eight years old, my parents told me and my eight brothers and sisters that we were moving. My mother was an avid business traveler and really liked Phoenix. So one September, we all packed our bags and left New York.

I don’t remember the plane ride to Phoenix or other details about the trip, but I do remember the drive to the hotel where we stayed until my parents found a house. The Supershuttle turned off the main road and pulled into the parking lot of an adult video store. I was confused and asked my older sister, who was sitting next to me, where we were. She just giggled. We drove past the video store parking lot and up to a motel. My mother and father went in, and when they came out they told the driver to pull up to the back. All eleven of us would be staying in two rooms – my father, mother, and infant little sister in one room and eight of us in the other room. There were only two queen beds in each room (we went sleeping bag shopping later that day).

Moving from New York – where we attended Orthodox yeshivas - to Arizona – where we would attend public school (there weren’t any yeshivas in the area at the time) – would be a huge transition for us. Instead of going to school from 8 am – 4 pm, we were going to school from 9 am – 3 pm. I was thrilled – It felt like a half-day. Plus, the curriculum was only in English, instead of the three hours of daily Hebrew studies in addition to English studies that we were used to.

Eating became a challenge. In New York, a family that kept kosher didn’t have to struggle to find kosher food; there were a multitude of restaurants and supermarkets that were kosher, and it was a true convenience. Only until we moved to Arizona did we realize the hardship of finding kosher food. We would go to the supermarket and all of the brands were foreign to us. We had to inspect each thing we bought and make sure that it was kosher. And any food that was perishable, like cheese, meat or poultry, was NOT kosher in Arizona and had to be flown in, special delivery, from Los Angeles. Feeding a family of eleven was not easy to begin with, and it became even more difficult in Arizona.

Eventually my parents found a home, or more specifically, happened across a government re-possessed home that we bought for $122,500. We slowly began to move all of our things out of the motel, except for the sleeping bags which we kindly put out of their misery. But this new place was no ordinary home. Arizona didn’t have two-story houses, they were all “ranch” style. We had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a backyard that was as big as a New York City block. My parents shared a bedroom and bathroom, and had direct access to the pool and outdoor spa. Throw nine kids into the remaining three rooms and have them share one bathroom and you have a party.

At first, people in Arizona were very friendly. Our neighbors came over and introduced themselves, and people would say “good day” to us as we walked in the street. This was nothing like the attitude of native New Yorkers that we were used to. But one thing that was different about these friendly people was exposed as soon as the baseball caps came off to reveal our yarmulkes. At school, I was constantly teased about wearing a “beanie” or a “shoulder pad” on my head. Being a young, naïve Jew, I would try to explain why I wore it, which only brought on more questions and ridicule.

Even the school administration was insensitive towards us. We would have to miss school for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and since Jewish law prohibited us from calling the school on holidays, we had to send a note in beforehand. The school would question us and gave us a hard time about it, as if we were making up new holidays that they have never heard of before.

One time during Passover, I was eating matzah in the cafeteria and the lunch lady walked by with a puzzled look on her face. Later that day I got home and my mother asked me why I hadn’t packed my lunch. I didn’t know what she was talking about until she told me that the lunch lady had called to ask her why her child was lunch-less, eating what must have seemed like nothing more than a large cracker or a piece of cardboard. But how could I be blamed when the only thing to eat in Arizona during Passover was matzah; there was no other “kosher for Passover” food.

One of my most embarrassing moments was during a school presentation when I decided to share the Jewish ritual of blowing the shofar. Everyone was interested until I pulled out the ram’s horn and tried to blow it for them. All that came out was a loud fart-sound. The teacher next door ran in and asked if everyone was okay. I was the butt of many jokes after that incident (pun intended).

Life as an eight-year-old in a foreign state wasn’t easy, but it also challenged us in a good way. Moving from New York, the Jewish Melting Pot of America, to Arizona, we were the first eleven Jews there (or so it seemed), definitely caused my family to look at things from a different perspective.

Photo by Sebastian Bergmann, licensed under Creative Commons.

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