REPORT FROM THE 1949 MACHON

The last six months have been revolutionary ones. From early in July until mid-December, we have been students in the Machon L'madrichei Chutz L'Aretz (Institute for Youth Leaders from the Diaspora). In this letter, I shall not discuss the Machon as a whole nor attempt to evaluate its program or organization. Rather I will comment on our adjustment as a group to the Machon and to Israel generally.

As an institution of the Jewish Agency, the Machon is representative of all groups affiliated with the World Zionist Organization: Hapoel Hamizrachi, Hechalutz Hatzair, Betar, Hashomer Hatzair, the General Zionist youth, and Habonim. Not only are different movement ideologies represented, but different national groups, as well. In our student body at the Machon there are one hundred "Anglo-Saxons," including groups from both North and South America, South Africa, New Zealand, Australia, plus a lone Finn. Thus there has had to be an adjustment to the group, an "Anglo-Saxon" island, as well as to Israel as a whole.

Adjustment and integration into this large group was not a simple process. The background of the students from different cultures and movements made the formation of one chevra (group) extremely difficult. An organized chevra, with group forms and functions, never evolved within the Machon. At times, the problem of the larger group placed strains upon our American Habonim chaverim.

Our group of nine chaverim organized its own chevra with a collective kupa (fund) ; a series of planned and spontaneous discussions; and group activities, such as going on trips, attending concerts, and visiting friends in the city. The Machon also began to serve as an unofficial hostel for Habonim chaverim in Jerusalem on visits or official business. It also served as a means of maintaining closer contact with our points of settlement, of getting a chance to talk to people we had known in the States, and of keeping up with the latest gossip.

Our own movement's forms and traditions became more meaningful to us as we began to reminisce about "the good old days." Many times these recollections became a sort of refuge. We began viewing and examining the country through the eyes of American Habonim; we compared onegei Shabbat in the Machon or a kibbutz to those of Habonim in the States, and contrasted our -madrichim at the Machon to our movement's conception of a madrich. We saw that some of the things almost taken for granted in the movement have deep and significant personal values for us.

Unquestionably, the most striking problem of adjustment to Israel is that of language. The speed of adjustment to the country, of feeling emotionally secure within it, is directly proportional to the degree of one's knowledge of Hebrew. Without being able to answer the bus driver when he asks you where you want to go, or without being able to talk to the soldier you're hitching a ride with, you become the reincarnation of the "greenhorn." Each act becomes difficult, deliberate, a "well-planned activity." And when you don't succeed in making yourself understood, the feeling of living in a strange, foreign land begins, with yourself the foreigner in the Jewish state! Thus the process of disappointment and misunderstanding begins.

In all likelihood, the most valuable asset which we have acquired at the Machon these past six months is a knowledge of Hebrew, to a greater or lesser degree. This may mean anything ranging from Adam B'Moledet-Book II to Bialik. As we studied, our knowledge of the language progressed rapidly. But even so, those among us who spoke Hebrew well enough to be understood were in advantageous positions. Whenever, as a group, we would have a discussion with someone on the street or on the back of a truck, it would invariably be followed by a huddle with a short translation by our "experts"; and often the experts disagreed among themselves. The "Hebrew speakers" became our emissaries. The group's continued progress in Hebrew imperceptibly made for a much deeper sense of security and a greater feeling of real integration into the country.

In the course of the six months, the Machon organized five week-long tiyulim (trips), giving us the opportunity to see just about every part of the country in an organized manner. It is impossible to convey satisfactorily how the country looks, the "feel" of the country.

A certain degree of intellectual and emotional understanding can undoubtedly be achieved in America, and this is of fundamental importance to one's adjustment to the country. The fuller the knowledge of Israel, the deeper the understanding of things Jewish prior to one's aliya, the quicker the ties are bound and the integration felt when one settles in the country. But no matter how many articles are read, people talked to, letters received, the first contact with Israel is still a shock and a deep personal discovery. You become transferred from the world of words to that of intimate life.

It is difficult to describe one's reaction to the country. There is, at first, a moment of strangeness and disappointment, intermixed with the elation of beginning a new series of experiences. You're surprised to find things about which you've led discussions. Your initial reaction depends somewhat on whom you speak with first, on whether he is pro- or anti-Histadrut, a new oleh who is happy in the country or one who wants to return. The first few weeks are ones of constant discovery. But when the routine of living begins, when the surprises become less frequent, general impressions become clearer.

Subtly or more consciously, you become aware that Israel is the Jewish state. The term begins to take on the meaning of the Zionist classics. At times it is difficult to grasp. The faces in the Egged bus are not the same as the Jewish faces in Brooklyn or Milwaukee. They're Yemenite or Moroccan, Czechoslovak or German, or even Israeli. It is sometimes difficult to appreciate the relationship between yourself and the Yemenite in oriental dress, or the sabra (native Israeli) with the blue Histadrut shirt. But the tenseness of being Jewish, the
pressure of being a stranger, is gone. And the common bond of Jewishness tends to bridge the gap between yourself and the rest of the community, between the heterogeneity of the communities themselves. Though the manner of life be different, the dress strange, the language completely foreign, yet there is a common bond. That bond, in a real sense, is the greatness of the State.

There are many roads to Zion, different ties to the country— national, religious, socialist, or any mixture thereof. To these I'd like to add another: the beauty of the country. There is here a wildness and strangeness that is intensely appealing. Each part of the country is different, has a character all its own. The hills of Judea somehow seem different from those of Galilee. The Negev has a wild romanticism which is beautiful even in its bleakness. The fantastic differences in topography between such short distances make the country appear everchanging, dynamic. Knowledge of the Bible, of ancient Jewish history, is an invaluable asset. The hills around Tsora become meaningful when identified with stories of Samson. The Arava becomes more than "the Wilderness" when it becomes the wilderness in which Moses wandered.

Later, the hills and the fields take on a more personal meaning. At first, you know that you're passing "a Kibbutz." But after the third or fourth trip, "the kibbutz" becomes Mishmar Hanegev or Maale Hachamisha, becomes a familiar landmark. You even begin noticing the new houses or remember that you know someone there. You begin appreciating more than the country's natural beauty. The entire country becomes a sort of personal acquisition.

The most powerful impression is that of youth, of vitality, of change. One cannot remain long in the country without sensing daily progress. Each day the papers carry reports of new projects and plans, from the extermination of rats to the planning of garden cities. The American frontier is, in great measure, a matter for the historian. But Israel is today a frontier in the broadest sense: technologically, culturally, socially, economically, the basic patterns of life are yet to be set. That, in itself, is particularly challenging, even inviting. The symbols of the future Israeli society are being fashioned today. Whether or not they will be the symbols of the chalutz will, in great measure, be decided in our generation. The struggle for the good life is not peculiar to Israel. It is to be found in each person, in every society. But the intensity of the country, the small size and numbers, make the struggle a much more intimate one, make one feel that his contribution will be felt, that he is more than simply a pebble against the tidal wave.

Today the most humbling experience a Jew can undergo is to visit Pardess Chana or any other immigrant camp. We spent only three days in a camp, and, as such, it was only a glimpse. But in both an emotional and intellectual sense, it was an overwhelming experience. Pardess Ghana is a large, ugly, former British army base. The moral desolation and emptiness of the camp is a fantastic thing. The problems of living in the camp are frightening. I wonder how differently I would see things after living a few months in a tent during the winter with no friends and little work. One's entire attitude towards Israel is changed upon witnessing the new immigrant in the camp. What will happen to the family living in the tent with no platform when it begins raining becomes of greater importance than the division in the kibbutz movement.

The months have gone so swiftly that it is difficult to grasp that more than half our time in the country has passed. In a few days we begin the second phase, that of living in kibbutzim. The first six months have been deep and rich ones. The next four should be equally so.

ALEX WEINGROD, Jerusalem, 1949