by Shimon Peres
As I scanned the boats looking for my father, I noticed scores of local Jews whom I barely resembled. In perpetually gray Vishneva, every Jew I knew was incredibly pale. To be among these men who were tanned by the sun and chiseled by the hard work of cultivating the land was to be among heroes. I wanted nothing more than to join them, to become one of them.
Eventually I spotted my father standing at the front of a small Arab fishing boat, enthusiastically waving at my brother and me, so much tanner than when last I had seen him. Beside him stood the captain of the vessel, a tall Arab man dressed in wide, flowing pants with accordion creases. We leapt into the boat and greeted our father with two years of unspent love. To us he gave the same. As we made our way to shore, I could feel the sun’s warmth beating down through my thick winter jacket. I closed my eyes and imagined the soft heat was my own personal welcome, a welcome from a sun that had been biding its time until my arrival. The moment I stepped out of the boat and onto the land, I knew I had found my way home.
The land of Israel suited me well. Over time, I felt like I was sloughing off my old life, as though Vishneva had been my cocoon and now I had grown wings. I stopped wearing jackets and ties, trading them in for short sleeves instead. I watched my skin darken under the clearest blue skies, and never felt more like a true child of Israel than when I came home with a sunburn. I loved books with intense fervor and interest, but now I read them under a sycamore tree in the park or on the sands at the edge of the sea.
•••
On July 15, 2007, I was sworn in as Israel’s ninth president. I was eighty-three years old. It was the culmination of a career that spanned the life of the state itself, a final opportunity to serve the people through government. Standing on the stage, taking the oath of office, it was Vishneva that occupied my mind, a reminder of where my journey had started. I had an endless imagination as an eleven-year-old boy, but even in my most ambitious dreams, I never thought that I would find myself at such a moment.
At a celebration the evening of my swearing in, a young man I’d never met approached me, launching straight into conversation with an unabashed Israeli frankness I couldn’t help but admire.
“Mr. President, with due respect, after such a long career, why would you keep working at your age?”
“Why do I serve?” I asked. “I suppose I never considered the alternative.”
It was the truth. As long as I could recall, Zionism had been the center of my identity, and service to it a requirement for its success. In my eighties, that service led me to the presidency, after six decades in Israeli politics. But as I came of age as a young man in Mandatory Palestine, the service I imagined was not work in government; it was work in the fields, work settling the land, work creating a new kind of community. I wanted nothing more than to be a kibbutznik.
The first settlement known as a kibbutz was called Degania, established in the Jordan Valley in 1910 by a group of young pioneers who had fled Europe. They had come with grand plans, not just to build settlements, but to make real the dream that was Zionism. The kibbutzim were, first and foremost, agricultural settlements, places where people worked to the bone, tilling the rocky soil and draining wretched swamps. It was the pioneers who were working every day to make the uninhabitable bloom. In due time, Degania inspired others, and the barren lands of the Jezreel and Jordan Valleys became dotted with flourishing communities. There were around thirty kibbutzim when I immigrated to Israel, and many more in time. In the harshest conditions, they reshaped the landscape with palm trees and field crops and orchards and livestock. They made the desert beautiful and bountiful, and in doing so, convinced us of the limitless potential we could summon among us. In the years before statehood, we had strong leadership and were building the foundations for state institutions and a government. During that time—and out of necessity—it was the kibbutzim that became our most central institutions, not just because of their delicate harvests or elegant ideology, but because they took on the essential responsibilities: managing settlements and immigration and organizing our defense. And while each kibbutz had its own unique characteristics, they all organized themselves around the same central vision. In their pursuit of the Zionist dream, the pioneers had also tried to reimagine a new kind of society, one built on equality and cooperation, on justice and fairness, on collective ownership and communal living.
I enjoyed my life in Tel Aviv, the afternoons spent riding my bicycle down the streets, counting the new buildings, cataloging the daily progress of construction. But it was the kibbutzim in the distance that captured my heart. I had joined the youth movement at my high school, through which I had met and learned from the Jewish nation’s greatest pioneers. At school, we studied—but in the youth movement, we dreamed. I had become convinced, having spent so much of my childhood lionizing the pioneers, that there was no more essential a mission, no higher a calling than to join them. I wanted to trade the noise of the city for the quiet of the fields—to be a part of the quest to transform the land. Over time, our group leader, Elhanan Yishai, came to understand the path I sought to travel and, in his kindness, chose me as someone to help.
“I think you should consider Ben-Shemen,” he said to me, during a conversation that would change the course of my life. It was the first time I had heard its name.
Ben-Shemen Youth Village was many things to many people. Founded in 1927 by Dr. Siegfried Lehmann, a German physician and educator, it was—and remains—the most wonderful place I have ever known.
It was, first and foremost, a place to call home, including for the brave and weakened children who had been orphaned in Europe, and yet somehow made their way to Mandatory Palestine alone. But it was so much more than that. It was both an intellectual center of Zionism and a place to learn the most practical applications of its tenets. It was a place where boys and girls could acquire the skills required to settle the arid land: how to herd sheep and milk the goats and the cows; how to press seeds into the hard, salty soil in a way that would give them nourishment; the proper way to sharpen and swing a scythe. It was also a place where boys and girls were trained to be soldiers, knowing that Zionism would surely require a fight. Students learned how to shoot, how to fight, how to navigate by the stars. But most of all, they would learn the values that kibbutz life represented: how to work together as equals, how to build and sustain a community over time. It was a place that turned children into leaders. Ben-Shemen had just accepted a large wave of children from Europe, and its leaders were hoping to match them with others who, having emigrated from Europe themselves, could help the new arrivals adjust to a very different life.
Before I had the chance to respond, Elhanan injected a final piece of information. “You don’t have to go,” he said. “But I want you to know I already recommended you, and because I know of your family’s financial situation, I also applied for a scholarship on your behalf.” I must have looked truly stunned.
“They want you, Shimon,” he said with a smile, “and they will cover the costs. So if you want to do this, the decision is yours.”
I leapt from my chair and raced straight to my house to tell my mother and father. I didn’t even ask for their permission. I just told them my plan and my hopes with all of the passion and impatience of a fifteen-year-old boy. This, I was certain, was my destiny. I think they thought so, too.
I arrived at Ben-Shemen in 1938, brimming with opinions and eager to learn. I remember first walking through its entrance and into the courtyard, a small square surrounded by modest one-story buildings. There were two beautiful oak trees in the heart of the courtyard, old giants that must have borne witness to centuries of history. Under them stood a small group of children gathered around what looked like their teacher, listening intently as she discussed the day’s lesson.
I was assigned to a spare wooden cabin at the end of a narrow dirt path where I lived happily with two other boys. There were times, at first glance, when it must have looked like a summer camp. We told jokes an
d played pranks and sang songs by the fire. We went on long, winding hikes through the neighboring foothills and played all sorts of games while we worked through our chores. It was the first time, and first place, where I truly made friends. In Tel Aviv, I was an outsider. At Ben-Shemen I was popular.
And yet despite the camaraderie and the occasional mischief, we were all keenly aware that we were part of a mission—something far bigger than ourselves. We weren’t just living on the frontier of Jewish history; we were shaping it with our hands. With every seed we planted and every crop we harvested, we were extending the reach of our dreams. This was the harsh land on which we were going to rebuild the Jewish state—and it fell to us to tame it, to make sure it could support many millions of others. What kind of security can we provide to our people, we were often reminded, if we can’t fill their bellies once they come? So we had to prepare.
By day, we worked the fields or studied in our classrooms. By night, we stood guard. It was not unusual for Arabs in the neighboring villages to fire their weapons at us or try to pilfer our food and supplies. I had been appointed commander of one of the guard posts, a reinforced concrete structure at the edge of the village. The sun having set, I would crawl up its wrought-iron ladder and position myself as a lookout, my back against one wall, my rifle at my side. Each time, I hoped for a quiet evening—but there were many times when the village was shot at, many nights when I had to exchange fire with the darkness.
Each night of my posting I would pass by the Gelmans’ house. Mr. Gelman was our carpentry teacher, and oftentimes I would see him in the front yard, sawing away at a long board of wood. Sometimes I would see his wife tending the garden, watering her flowers or checking the progress of her tomatoes. “Hello,” I would call out with a wave.
On one particular night, however, there was someone I didn’t recognize standing barefoot in their doorway. Her long brown hair was pulled back and braided, revealing piercing eyes and a porcelain face, a beauty like none I had ever seen. We made eye contact just for a moment, and with the slightest of smiles, I was hers. It was as though she had destroyed me and rebuilt me in an instant. Her name was Sonia. She was Gelman’s second daughter, and had spent her whole life growing up in the village. Each night I would see her, always without shoes, a lawn mower by her side. I was mesmerized.
In time I would find the courage to speak to her. But she was not impressed by me. I did my best: I read her poems, even chapters of Karl Marx, but nothing seemed to break through. Not until the day I asked her to accompany me to a young cucumber field. There was something about the perfume of the cucumbers, the romance of nature, that must have finally worked. She looked at me differently, finally—the way I had been looking at her.
Sonia was my first and only love. I would come to find a young woman who was both gentle and firm, and, in every way, a source of great wisdom and strength. Sonia let me dream, but kept me grounded. She believed in me and supported me as I chased my wildest visions. But she never let me get ahead of myself. She was my compass and my conscience, in one. In all of the world, there could not have been another person more deserving of my love, and somehow—for some reason—she seemed ready to love me, too.
This was Ben-Shemen. It was a place where we learned by day and defended by night. A place where we could be ourselves and chase our purpose. A place where soul mates waited for you a short walk down the road.
It was also a place of great political drama. It was there that I first started to refine my political opinions, and the first place I had the chance to put them to good use. Indeed, for all that we learned from our teachers at Ben-Shemen, there were few things more formative than what we did in the shadows. Ben-Shemen was home to a number of political youth movements, organizations where students would debate the future of the Jewish people, the necessity of a Jewish state, and the strategy required to create one. But this kind of political activity was officially forbidden on the grounds, so any such debates would take place at night, in secret whispers and impassioned pleas. These were the conversations of a generation—the youngest generation—rooted in a sense that it was our own future we were trying to build, that what we spoke were more than words. We felt as though our mission was greater than securing a homeland, that it was our job to imagine a new society. This was the driving concept behind the kibbutz system, and the idea that we had so firmly embraced. And perhaps because the stakes were so high, and because our role felt so central, our debates were often quite heated.
There were plenty of disagreements among us, despite our shared aspirations. Some of the leaders were Stalinists, people who demanded ideological collectivism in their kibbutzim and saw a Jewish state as a mechanism for greater discipline and order. They wanted to replicate the Soviet system. I, on the other hand, believed that Stalin had perverted the teachings of Marx, that his style of government was anathema to the socialist ideal. Rather than replicate his system of government—or any other—I believed we needed one that was uniquely our own, one that reflected a national ethos based on the tenets of Jewish morality. As Herzl had once said, “It is true that we aspire to our ancient land. But what we want in that ancient land is a new blossoming of the Jewish spirit.”
I was increasingly a key player in our secret gatherings, no longer the outsider. The early experiences of the youth movement transformed me, shaping how I saw the world and, increasingly, where I saw myself in it. The more I became a leading voice in the room, the more I realized how much I enjoyed it, how impactful it could be to stand in front of a crowd, and with nothing but words, change minds and beliefs, and perhaps even history. It helped, I am sure, that even as a teenager, I was blessed with an unusually deep baritone voice, one that lent my words the aura of authority, even when it hadn’t been earned.
During my second summer at Ben-Shemen, the youth movement I had chosen to join—HaNoar HaOved, or Working Youth—voted to elect me as a delegate to its national convention. I was elated. I was no less committed to my dreams of settling the land, but I was suddenly aware that I had a skill others thought powerful—the ability to persuade. I felt I had been called to service, that circumstance was conspiring to create a second path for me.
A few months after accepting the position, I was required to make a trip up north to Haifa on behalf of HaNoar HaOved. I had planned to take a bus, but when I mentioned this plan to Berl Katznelson, an instructor and great Zionist thinker who had taken a liking to me, he suggested a better idea.
“Actually, the timing is perfect,” he said. “I have a friend who is driving up to Haifa next week. I’m sure I can arrange to get you a seat in his car.”
“That’s excellent news,” I said. “Who’s your friend?”
“It’s David Ben-Gurion,” he replied nonchalantly.
In my mind, David Ben-Gurion was not just a man, but a legend. He was the leader of the Jewish people in Mandatory Palestine, part strategist, part philosopher. He sought independence for the Jews not only to create a state, but to fulfill our historic mission, to become a “light unto nations,” an example for all of humanity. His vision for our future state—safe, secure, democratic, and socialist—was an inspiration to me, and the urgency with which he fought was a subject of constant admiration. Suddenly, I was going to get two hours with him, with nothing to interrupt us but time.
I slept very little the night before the journey. Instead, I spent most of the early hours of the morning considering what he might say to me, and how I might respond. I tried to imagine the questions he would ask, and tried to practice my answers, whispering quietly to myself as I stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t help but think that if I could impress him, if I could show him my grasp of the issues and my commitment to the cause, then perhaps he would remember me—that maybe I could stand out. Who knew where that might lead?
I was sitting in the backseat when Ben-Gurion got into the car, and took the seat next to me. In person, his hair seemed even whiter than in photographs, almost glowing against the tanned s
kin of his mostly bald head. He was wearing an overcoat, and a frown on his face that seemed more reflective of the permanent position of his mouth than his disposition—or, at least, so I hoped.
As we pulled away he looked over at me and gave a small nod to acknowledge my presence. But before I could introduce myself, he had already turned away. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, and within a few minutes, it became clear he was sleeping. There was no end to my disappointment.
He stayed asleep for nearly the entire journey. But as we got close to Haifa, the bouncing of car on the dirt road must have woken him. Through the corner of my eye, I could see him adjusting himself, wiping his eyes and fixing his posture. It seemed I might have my chance after all. Then without warning, he turned and shouted at me, “You know, Trotsky was no leader!”
I didn’t know what to think—or what to say. I didn’t understand how we landed on the topic, or why he seemed to think I was curious about Trotsky, or what it was he was even referring to. But how could I not be curious?
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
In 1918, following the Russian Revolution, Leon Trotsky had become the Soviet Union’s first minister of foreign affairs. He had come to lead the Soviet delegation in peace negotiations to end Soviet Russia’s involvement in World War I. Having grown impatient with Germany for demanding more and more territorial concessions, Trotsky decided to cut off negotiations altogether. Instead, he unilaterally declared an end of hostilities without signing an agreement with the Germans. Trotsky had described the proposal as “no war, no peace.”
“‘No war, no peace’?” Ben-Gurion shouted, his face red with anger. “What is this? This is not a strategy. This is an invention. Either peace and pay the price or war and take the risk—there is no other choice.”
Again I was not sure how to respond, but this time it didn’t matter. Before I could formulate a careful reply, Ben-Gurion had closed his eyes and returned to his nap. He didn’t say another word.
