Palestine

 

Hagar stopped the car, killed the engine, and got out.

       It was late afternoon. A field of grass fluttered in the warm breeze. The rays of the sun reflected from the Sea of Galilee.

The local analyst had requested she approach the final mile on foot. Less conspicuous, he’d said.

       For the time being, she decided to go with the flow, act as expected, and feign ignorance. It might buy her time if whoever was behind it did not realize that she caught onto their ruse.

       The situation turned out to be worse than she’d first assumed. Her network wasn’t compromised; it had been eviscerated. The single figure hurrying toward her was the last analyst standing. But he had no way of knowing that; her people operated independently, gathering information and analyzing events of this world on their own. This compartmentalization of the analysts was intentional; it was a security measure. For all the good it did.

       She had been on her way to Egypt when she received his message. He wouldn’t have asked her to detour without a good reason.

       Mr. Watts came to a stop and bowed. “Greetings, High Mistress.”

       “Greetings,” she said and watched him curiously. Her analyst was wearing loose trousers, a white tank top, and a dark-blue woolen cap. He motioned her to follow him up the small hill.

       Indeed, an enigma awaited her upon reaching the hilltop. The buildings spread out below, with their sharp lines and gabled roofs, stood in stark contrast to the traditional dwellings of the region. They seemed out of place in that part of the world.

       Some distance away, a group of young men and women were making their way toward the settlement. They were all carrying hoes and sickles, apparently farmers. The men wore Western slacks; the women wore shorts and walked casually alongside their male counterparts. Not Arabs, then. “Jews?” she asked, incredulous. “Jewish farmers?”

       “Interesting, isn’t it?”

       Her eyes followed the retreating figures. “What are these Ashkenazi Jews doing here, in the lands of the Mohammedans?”

       Her analyst rocked back and forth on his feet. Hagar recalled that Mr. Watts had always done that when he was animated. “As you’re aware, the jews regard this area as Eretz Yisrael, the spiritual heart of their people. Hundreds of thousands of Jews migrated here in the last few decades, determined to establish a national home.”

       She burst out laughing. The analyst glanced at her with obvious surprise.

       “Oh, that’s a good one—the rise of the dhimmis! I can’t wait to see how it’ll play out.”

       “I fail to see the humor.”

       “Islam was set to take the place of the older religions,” she told him. “For the followers of Judaism to re-establish a cultural center here…oh, the Muslims are surely shitting sulfur over this.” She laughed out loud again. “What were they thinking—migrating into the Arab heartland?”

       “High Mistress, they’ve worked hard to sidestep this question, treating the resentful natives as part of the exotic scenery.”

       “Madness. Couldn’t they have settled a less contentious region?” But she found herself intrigued.

       “They did set up some agricultural settlements in Argentina.” He shrugged. “Didn’t work out.”

       “What was there to work out, Mr. Watts?” Hagar eyed him quizzically. Once he had another name. All of her analysts did. But with their relocation to this planet, they started a new life and left it all behind. They anticipated spending the remainder of their lives on Earth.

       “This,” he said. “I wanted you to see it for yourself.”

       Hagar glanced at the man questioningly.

       He had been waiting for this. “A collective settlement,” he said, pointing at the buildings in the distance. “Dozens like this one have sprung up in the region.”

       “How long have these existed?” she demanded.

       His eyes twinkled. “The oldest has been around for thirty years and is going strong.”

       Hagar was silent for some time, considering this. “Interesting,” she said at last. She had a standing order to alert her to any forward-thinking, pioneering human enterprises. She wanted to be kept abreast not only of the most worrisome developments of the manmade world on Earth, but also its most promising. Many intentional communities have sprouted in the last century and a half. Almost all of them have proved to be very short-lived. Could it be different here? “I’ll go in and take a peek,” she told Mr. Watts. He bowed in return, looking pleased.

       Earlier, she had taken note of the way the female farmers were dressed. Hagar proceeded to transform her clothes until she stood in front of Mr. Watts wearing a kerchief, dark shorts, and a sleeveless white top. “The outfit the girls wear around here is nothing if not comfortable,” she said, laughing, and stuck her hands in the dirt, only to rub some of it on her shorts. “How do I look?”

       “Like you fit in, boss.” He gave her a boyish grin and touched his cap in acknowledgment.

       They started walking toward the settlement. In the distance, a hay baler slowly worked its way through a field, a reciprocating beam on top packing the straw tightly onto the incoming conveyor belt. In addition to the driver on the small tractor out front, four men mounted the baler itself, raking the hay and managing the twine feed, as needed.

       Hagar was startled as a large group of naked children dashed past them, squealing and laughing. “Where are they headed?”

       “Why, to the lake, of course.” Mr. Watts was chortling. “At this speed, I reckon they’re about to hit the water any moment now.”

       They crossed the field, and the sound of a hammer banging on metal greeted them as they approached a shaded area. A man paused his work and regarded them before resuming. From a shed, a few men walked out single file carrying on their shoulders bulky burlap sacks filled with grain. Hagar gestured to her companion, and they entered the outbuilding. In one corner, two women crouched, inspecting numerous potted seedlings arrayed in front of them.

       “I expected a socialist, collective settlement to stifle the entrepreneurial and innovative spirit,” her analyst was saying once they were back out.

       “Mr. Watts, groups of dedicated young people can be most enterprising—collectives or no collectives,” Hagar said. “The Fourierist Phalanxes in the United States collapsed within months, but it wasn’t for lack of ingenuity.” She observed small children clearing rocks. Three of them pushed a loaded wheelbarrow to the edge of a pit. As they lifted it up, other kids removed the rocks using long-handled hoes.

       Hagar made her way toward the residential area, and her analyst fell in beside her. Among recently planted palm trees, they passed a group of teens lounging on a grass lawn. In the center stood an older man, leading what sounded like a current-affairs discussion.

       Evening descended, and lights flickered on in the main buildings.

       Mr. Watts was talking. “A few years after you departed Earth, France and the United Kingdom took the Syrian region from the Turks.”

       “Independence?”

       “Lasted only for a few months. The two powers asserted their control and proceeded to carve up the territory. Coastal and northern Syria came under French hegemony. Southern Syria—Palestine—came under a British one.”

       “How did the politicized Arabs of Palestine react?”

       “They clamored for unity with the rest of Syria.”

       “Continue.”

       “Gradually, the call for unity was replaced by a call for an independent Palestine.”

       The bracelet on his arm glowed, and he transmitted the remaining information to his mistress.

֎

In the falling darkness, amid cypress trees, Hagar stood regarding a vacant building. Her glance fell on a plaque, and she trained her flashlight on it. The inscription read: May this school rear our children in knowledge and understanding, instilling cooperation, loyalty, and efficiency. They will continue our mission of turning barren land into a thriving, fertile region. May plenty and love for the homeland bless the returned sons of an exiled people.

       “It’s a school,” someone behind her said in heavily accented German.

       She spun around. A man with a holstered rifle stood grinning at her.

       With Hagar appearing to be no more than twenty, he mistook her for one of the Jewish German youth members who had recently taken up residence in the colony.

       “We built the school seven years ago,” the watchman said.

Repeated chimes of a ship’s bell filled the air.

       “It seems to be the nicest building in the settlement,” Hagar said, noting the whitewash on the walls, the tended lawn, and the flower garden.

       “For the younger generation, nothing but the best,” he said, adoration in his voice. “When we still had to live in shacks and tents, we made it a point to build a permanent structure for the children.” He followed her gaze. “Over there is the orchard.” The watchman paused. “You are new here,” he said.

       She smiled. “I’ve only just arrived.”

       The guard gestured toward a large communal dining hall. “Go have dinner. That’s where everyone is headed now.”

       Hagar looked at him unhappily, taken aback by his blunt manner. She then noticed a woman standing some distance away, hands in her pockets. The woman was also armed and wore a belt with loops filled with cartridges slung over her shoulder, sash-style. Clearly, she was waiting on the first watchman to join her.

       Hagar eyed the female guard in her somewhat rumpled, oversized shirt. What at first appeared bold-faced and brassy seemed, at least in part, to be something else: a deliberate attempt to expunge the differences between men and women.

       “Good flashlight.” The man motioned to the one in her hand. “Can I use it? It’ll be more useful for guard duty. Your turn will come soon enough.” Without waiting for an answer, he took it from her.

       From a kilometer away in the hills, Mr. Watts watched the exchange through binoculars that far surpassed any on Earth and gasped at the man’s audacity. But his boss just let loose a startled, amused laugh and walked with an easy gait toward the dining hall.

       Men and women in clean white shirts were emerging from the barracks and stuccoed dormitories, greeting each other, and walking toward the single-story building with numerous windows.

       Joining them, Hagar entered a brightly lit, boisterous hall. It was filled mostly with young people; the oldest seemed to be in their late thirties. Next to where she stood, someone was strumming a mandolin with some people nearby singing along. She looked around, unsure, then stepped between the two rows of crowded tables. “Shalom,” she finally greeted a man with a weathered, tanned face, seated by himself.

       “Sit down, sit down,” the man said, patting the space next to him on the wooden bench. She obliged.

       A few women pushed open double swinging doors and emerged from the kitchen carrying trays.

       “Fish!” hollered one of the serving women, turning around theatrically and holding a tray high. “And for a mere Saturday dinner, at that. Not fish from eggplants, not even from eggs, but real ones.” This was greeted with a roar of approval and a round of applause.

       “Newcomer?” the man asked, raising his voice to be heard. Hagar flashed him a dazzling smile.

       “And gorgeous at that.” The man admired her for a moment. However, something about her seemed out of place in the rough, down-to-earth environment of the settlement. Despite her athletic build, there was an air of refinement about her. Her slender fingers seemed more suited to playing a harp than handling farming tools, and her patrician nose seemed more accustomed to the fragrance of blooming roses than the raw scent of the earth. “Welcome,” he said. She nodded in acknowledgment and held out a cup. The man poured her steaming tea from a metal kettle.

       “How many members do you have?” Hagar wanted to know.

       “One hundred and seventy-two. We began with a core group of about sixty. This is our twelfth year.”

       She took a sip. “Looks like you guys invested a lot of yourselves in this place.”

       The man shook his head, bemused. “Out back, we’ve got a small cemetery. That’s where we buried comrades taken by malaria or killed by Arab marauders.” He grimaced. “It wasn’t easy waking up at two o’clock in the morning in those early days. Some of us still do, you know. It’s been a relentless grind. And then we’ve had occasional locusts, which decimated our crops. You’d find their larvae in your bedclothes, on your desk, in your shoes.”

       “And now, our alfalfa crop yield is on par with California’s,” someone else said. Hagar looked up. A woman across the table was grinning. “Enough, Yosef. You want to scare her off?” She extended a firm hand to Hagar. “I’m Elisheva.”

       “Hagar.”

       They shook hands.

       “This is a place where dreamers can make their ideas a reality.” The woman gave Hagar a lopsided smile.

       “Who’s the leader?”

       “No leader. Policy matters are decided by consensus,” Elisheva said, exchanging glances with Yosef. Something was off about the newcomer, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She stirred her soup, the spoon clinking against the bowl.

       Hagar mulled it over. “You say there are no leaders, but assertive people rise to prominence in every community.”

       “Sure,” Yosef said. “Yet, those who are more active and domineering make up a disparate collection of individuals and cliques that are often at odds with one another. This tends to cancel things out. Community decisions are made during the weekly General Assembly, where the timid and the inarticulate are encouraged to speak up. We try to arrive at a broad, genuine consensus.”

       Around them, the hall throbbed with the clatter of cutlery and the boisterous chatter of the crowd. People seated close by found themselves listening in.

       Hagar liked what she heard so far. “Do you get to decide what work you do?”

       Elisheva replied, “You let the work committee know your preference, and it decides.” She smiled. “We, the women, have largely taken over chicken breeding, beekeeping, and the vineyard.” She pointed at a bulletin board on the far wall. “It all comes down to trust: in the committee, in our fellow comrades, in the kvutza and what it stands for.”

       “Who has the job of cleaning the lavatories or working in the washhouse?”

       Elisheva said, “It’s not assigned to any one person. Instead, everyone takes turns handling the truly unpleasant or particularly tedious tasks. The frequency with which members are rotated through such tasks is in proportion to their unpleasantness.”

       “We have additional committees,” Yosef said between bites. “We’ve one that looks after education, one for housing, one for the kitchen. Those and others.”

       Hagar studied the faces around her. These people were not the first to establish such norms, but they were one of the very few secular intentional communities to survive beyond several years. The question, then, was why. And just as important…could it be implemented in other places?

       “It’s impressive,” Hagar said. She helped herself to some of the food. “Collective settlements, kvutzot, are dotting this valley, over twenty thousand people in all, I was told. With member Jews from South Africa and Romania, Russia and Greece, Poland and everywhere in between. What is different about the here and now?”

       Yosef put both hands on the table, contemplating her question. “Neither a sect nor a sanctuary, this kvutza and others like it have a purpose beyond their own existence. They are but means to reconstitute a Jewish national home.”

       So that was the root of their durability, Hagar realized, or at least part of it. She pushed on. “Among other factors, what makes capitalism work is the sense of ownership in one’s labor and product. Albeit with capitalism, this comes with a taint.” She peered at Yosef through the rising steam from her cup. “Isn’t this a problem in a collective settlement such as this?”

       “Ah, she’s a tarbutnikit,” someone said from a crowded table next to them.

       “Oh?”

       “A culturalist,” another clarified.

       “She has a point,” a woman said from behind them. “Russia had a great shortage of electricity during the war, but you could not persuade the people to conserve. Light would be left burning all night.”

       “If a service is owned in common by everyone, it belongs to no one,” Hagar said, a challenge in her tone.

       One of the men, a wiry frontiersman with weathered features, bristled at her words. “Can there be no motivation but the accumulation of assets?” he asked, disdain clear in his voice. A few around him murmured in agreement.

       “That’s a question waiting for an answer,” Hagar said, unperturbed.

       “We’ve answered it,” Elisheva said, putting down her fork. She focused her eyes on Hagar. “A member of the kvutza who gets up at four in the morning and does not return from the fields until dark—is he less devoted than the man who farms a field of his own? The woman who cooks for one hundred comrades, is she any less industrious than if she were to cook for only her family? If one breaks the only gas lamp the collective owns or leaves the boiling milk unattended and it runs over, everyone suffers. Therefore, we care more than if it concerned only us or our immediate family.”

       Hagar’s forehead creased in a frown as she mulled it over. “What if some members want more than others?”

       “We don’t maintain a rigid rule that each member can receive only so much and no more. The committee in charge settles such matters. What we have brought about is socialism on a human scale.”

       And that last thing you said makes a big difference, thought Hagar.

       “‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs,’” quoted a chubby member from another table, a comment which garnered him derisive but good-natured laughter and slaps on the back.

       “Enough philosophy,” cried a person seated nearby. He turned to Hagar. “Play the accordion, sweetheart?”

       “As a matter of fact I do.”

       The grinning member reached for the musical instrument, but then stopped. Someone had just entered the dining hall, and suddenly the air became charged with excitement and tension.

       “What’s going on?” Hagar asked.

       Yosef jutted his chin toward the newcomer. “This man is here to invite those interested in establishing a new settlement tomorrow.”

       Intrigue flickered in Hagar’s eyes. This had the ring of something she would enjoy. “What do you mean ‘tomorrow’? You make it sound as though a settlement is established in a day.”

       He nodded. “Given the recent Arab attacks, it’s crucial that any new outpost can defend itself from day one. From the moment we claim the land, it must be fortified.”

       “Whose land is it?”

       He waved his arms impatiently. “Ours, we purchased it. The point is, Bedouins are likely to attack the new community, trying to overrun it the very first night.”

       Hagar gestured for him to go on.

       “The pioneering group has built portable huts, barricades, and prefabricated watchtowers, which they parked in the kibbutz nearest to the site. In a few hours, in the dead of night, they’ll load everything on lorries and trailers. Accompanied by many others, they’ll form a caravan headed to their new home. Upon arrival, all will get to work. By late afternoon, a new village will be on the map, surrounded by a fence. The searchlight, mounted on a watchtower, will project a two-thousand-yard beam to keep the would-be attackers at bay, or otherwise light up offensive targets for our watchmen.

       “We’re joining the effort. About half of us are leaving at three o’clock in the morning and will return the day after. If you really want to contribute, come with us.”

       She suddenly felt like partaking in this little adventure, this little diversion. The larger world and its problems could wait for a day or two. “I’ll join this caravan.”

       He barked a short laugh. “Good.”

       “Now, am I going to get that accordion or not?” she demanded, holding out her arm.