the slightest interest in art or music or philoso- phy. After dinner, all they talked about was work, about Zionism, and so- cialism. He would have been content to stay in their room and listen to music. But if he refused to socialize, he was branded as aloof. If he tagged along with Golda, everyone frowned disparagingly at their togetherness. And he couldn’t go alone because Golda was always there.
On Friday nights, she happily sat through long political discussions and then joined the other kibbutzniks as they sang pioneering songs and danced the hora. On weekday evenings, she stopped by for a glass of tea and lingered for hours. What was she supposed to do? Sit in their room and listen to endless classical music? she asked, seemingly puz- zled at her husband’s distaste for the groupthink and the absence of privacy.
“[Morris] was not able to tolerate . . . the sense of belonging to a com- munity,” she complained. “He was too individualistic, far too within himself.”
Finally part of the world she had dreamed of for so long, Golda fed off her legendary stamina. Swinging a pickax was agony, but she never
winced in front of her comrades. If the kibbutz ethic demanded gossiping in the shower or wearing communal underwear, Golda merrily gossiped and wore communal underwear, although she was, by nature, a hygiene fanatic. When she was asked to run the chicken coops, she never men- tioned that she was deathly afraid of chickens. Nobody was ever going to say again that Golda Meyerson wasn’t strong enough, that she didn’t have enough spirit, or that she couldn’t fit in with the cream of the Zionist elite.
Still, too domineering not to try to impose her will, Golda made waves, or at least a few ripples. The other women tried to shirk kitchen duty, deemed less important than the “real work” of tilling the soil. “Why do you regard this work as demeaning?” Golda asked haughtily. “Why is it so much better to work in the barn and feed the cows, rather than in the kitchen and feed your comrades?” Never very sympathetic to women’s concerns, she seemed unaware of how sensitive the issue of kitchen duty still was for the veteran women pioneers, or indifferent to the long strug- gle they had waged.
In the first Jewish agricultural settlements, women caught up in the same “back to the land” fervor as Golda had been treated like maids. Kib- butzim limited their admission, arguing that women weren’t sufficiently productive. “We young women did not encounter hardship in work but in the humiliating treatment and apathetic attitude toward our aspirations,” wrote Sarah Malchin, a Russian immigrant who’d founded the first agri- cultural training school for women. For decades, women like Malchin had shunned the kitchen, where they were told they “belonged,” and fought for the right to plow and dig ditches in the belief that only equal work would win them full equality.
Golda was as disdainful of the kibbutz’s rustic ethos as she was of the politics of the kitchen. When she was on dining room duty, a chore ro- tated among the members, she put tablecloths and flowers out for Sab- bath—for many, a clear sign that she was hopelessly middle class. When she peeled the canned herring served cold for breakfast, the other women mocked her.
“How would you serve herring at your family table?” she asked, her sarcasm resembling her mother’s. “This is your home! They are your family!”
When the time came for the kibbutz to vote on the couple’s perma- nent membership, ironically, Morris was admitted without debate. But while Golda was also admitted, the women members complained about Golda’s behavior in the kitchen, about the fact that she wore stockings to dinner, that she ironed her kerchief and dress every day, not only on Sab- bath, and that when she received her allowance, she used it to buy a hat. The sentiment that she didn’t quite fit kibbutz life lingered. Years later, when Golda’s
On Friday nights, she happily sat through long political discussions and then joined the other kibbutzniks as they sang pioneering songs and danced the hora. On weekday evenings, she stopped by for a glass of tea and lingered for hours. What was she supposed to do? Sit in their room and listen to endless classical music? she asked, seemingly puz- zled at her husband’s distaste for the groupthink and the absence of privacy.
“[Morris] was not able to tolerate . . . the sense of belonging to a com- munity,” she complained. “He was too individualistic, far too within himself.”
Finally part of the world she had dreamed of for so long, Golda fed off her legendary stamina. Swinging a pickax was agony, but she never
winced in front of her comrades. If the kibbutz ethic demanded gossiping in the shower or wearing communal underwear, Golda merrily gossiped and wore communal underwear, although she was, by nature, a hygiene fanatic. When she was asked to run the chicken coops, she never men- tioned that she was deathly afraid of chickens. Nobody was ever going to say again that Golda Meyerson wasn’t strong enough, that she didn’t have enough spirit, or that she couldn’t fit in with the cream of the Zionist elite.
Still, too domineering not to try to impose her will, Golda made waves, or at least a few ripples. The other women tried to shirk kitchen duty, deemed less important than the “real work” of tilling the soil. “Why do you regard this work as demeaning?” Golda asked haughtily. “Why is it so much better to work in the barn and feed the cows, rather than in the kitchen and feed your comrades?” Never very sympathetic to women’s concerns, she seemed unaware of how sensitive the issue of kitchen duty still was for the veteran women pioneers, or indifferent to the long strug- gle they had waged.
In the first Jewish agricultural settlements, women caught up in the same “back to the land” fervor as Golda had been treated like maids. Kib- butzim limited their admission, arguing that women weren’t sufficiently productive. “We young women did not encounter hardship in work but in the humiliating treatment and apathetic attitude toward our aspirations,” wrote Sarah Malchin, a Russian immigrant who’d founded the first agri- cultural training school for women. For decades, women like Malchin had shunned the kitchen, where they were told they “belonged,” and fought for the right to plow and dig ditches in the belief that only equal work would win them full equality.
Golda was as disdainful of the kibbutz’s rustic ethos as she was of the politics of the kitchen. When she was on dining room duty, a chore ro- tated among the members, she put tablecloths and flowers out for Sab- bath—for many, a clear sign that she was hopelessly middle class. When she peeled the canned herring served cold for breakfast, the other women mocked her.
“How would you serve herring at your family table?” she asked, her sarcasm resembling her mother’s. “This is your home! They are your family!”
When the time came for the kibbutz to vote on the couple’s perma- nent membership, ironically, Morris was admitted without debate. But while Golda was also admitted, the women members complained about Golda’s behavior in the kitchen, about the fact that she wore stockings to dinner, that she ironed her kerchief and dress every day, not only on Sab- bath, and that when she received her allowance, she used it to buy a hat. The sentiment that she didn’t quite fit kibbutz life lingered. Years later, when Golda’s
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