You Want to Be Here, Be Here: Eileen on 35 Years Inside Samar

Details

Interviewee: Eileen Mascot
Role: Community Member
Community: Kibbutz Samar
Date: 2026-01-14
Language: en

Summary

Eileen Mascot reflects on her journey to Kibbutz Samar, which she joined in 1987 after previous experiences in Habonim and various communal living situations in North America. She describes the initial cultural transition from Kibbutz Grofit to Samar as both challenging and liberating, explaining how Samar offered a unique blend of structure and freedom, allowing her to pursue her passions and contribute meaningfully to the community. Over the years, she has observed significant changes in governance, culture, and community dynamics. Eileen emphasizes the importance of maintaining a balance between individual responsibility and communal expectations, and she is concerned about the increasing bureaucratic structure that has emerged in recent years. Ultimately, she offers advice for new communities to welcome newcomers openly, maintain financial independence, and embrace the natural process of change.

Key quotes

We decided to come to kibbutz… kind of a midway, because I wanted to be in Israel, and he would have much preferred living way out.

Samar was completely different than Grofit… it wasn’t like a warm welcoming community back then… kind of, 'you want to be here, be here; you don’t, don’t.'

You have freedom, but you also have a lot of responsibility… if you’re willing to take responsibility you can pretty much make your life the way you want.

If you don’t like the food, go work in the kitchen. Otherwise don’t complain… It wasn’t rules—it was guidelines.

All our money was together… there wasn’t a real differentiation between what’s yours and what’s the community’s.

To decide where the kids would sleep, there had to be a way of deciding—by voting. So then it became important who can vote.

I think it’s really hard. I think when you live in a community, you see people are always coming and always leaving… you really need new people.

Make sure it’s not something you feel you’re giving up… that is the way they really want to live.

Transcript

**Interviewer:** Okay, so let’s start with your name and we’ll add…
**Eileen:** Where I’m at now? Where I live? I’m Eileen Mascot. I’m at Kibbutz Samar in the Arava of Israel.
**Interviewer:** You can speak, it’s okay.
**Eileen:** They don’t have to touch—
**Interviewer:** Okay, so yeah, maybe let’s start with what brought you here. And how were the first steps into this place?
**Eileen:** I came here in 1987—a long time ago. I’m from Detroit, Michigan. I was involved in Habonim, which is like a socialist Zionist youth group, and from Habonim there were garinim—there were groups that went to different kibbutzim, and Samar wasn’t one of them. I was in Israel a few times, and to make it short, I really wanted to come back to Israel. My husband—late husband—we met in Habonim at age 13. First, he studied music, and then he left his classical music training in the conservatory. Before farming, he decided that he wanted to start a community—he wanted to farm—but not in Israel, because he was a pacifist and he didn’t think that he could be in the army, and he knew that really, more or less, it’s very difficult in Israel not to be in the army. We lived in a few different places, we checked out places. Towards the end of our time in the States we lived in Olympia, Washington. There’s a place—Evergreen State University—kind of an open university that then had a program in what was called ecological agriculture. This is 1982—early history. And we lived in a house with lots of hippies, lots of people coming and going—yurts, you know, buses, and the land.
But I still wanted to commit to Israel. And then at one point we made the decision. Brian decided that if he was just in the army only for defense on the border and he didn’t serve in the Territories, he would serve in the army. And so we decided to come to kibbutz, which was kind of a shidduch—kind of midway—because I wanted to be in Israel, and he would have much preferred living way out. He checked out British Columbia, and in Costa Rica—he would have much rather bought land way out somewhere. But I wanted to be in Israel, so we did—sounds kind of funny—but midway was kind of kibbutz, because it’s a community, you’re not alone in the middle of nowhere, but it’s in Israel, where I wanted to be.
So we had friends from Habonim who moved to Kibbutz Grofit, just down the road, and so we came to Grofit—not with the group, not with the garin, but through friends that we knew. We lived in Grofit three years and decided that Grofit was a bit too institutionalized for us—yeah, too many rules, too many committees. We checked out only things that weren’t kibbutz, like Neve Shalom, moshav shitufi, but there was this kind of strange kibbutz down the road that people always talked about, where they said you could be in a kibbutz but still be individualistic. So we said we’d come here first and it would be a lot easier to leave, too. We’d never come back to the Arava after leaving, but it’s easy to move down the road and then you can always leave from somewhere else.
So that was in 1987, and I’m here still. Brian was killed in a car accident in 2002, but I stayed.
**Interviewer:** How were the first steps into Samar?
**Eileen:** It’s funny, because, you know, we put all our stuff in a Transit van. Somebody gave us a ride that day, and I remember thinking: what, are we crazy? We want to make a really big change in life and we’re moving, you know, 20 minutes away—how difficult could it really be? But it was completely different. Samar was completely different than Grofit. It was good. It was kind of hard. At that time in Samar there were— I don’t know—maybe about 70–80 people, not that many. Not many children. Things were very, very loose. That was nice, but on the other hand it wasn’t like a warm, welcoming community back then. I actually think that’s something that’s really improved. Samar then was kind of like: you want to be here, be here. You don’t—don’t. Everybody—you do what you want. You know? So it was kind of… I had heard that there had been an American garin that came a long time before that, and after two months I think nobody stayed—there was nobody left. So when we left Grofit people said, "Oh, how can you go to Samar? You’re American. They don’t like Americans. They eat dinner at midnight there—really late at night." They were generous to that—I don’t know—all kinds of things, which kind of turned out to be true, because there was still children’s houses then, so people would pretty much work in the day, go to sleep, work again, and then come eat dinner late.
**Interviewer:** So how was it—how was the transition, maybe not from Grofit, but like the transition between a hippie community in North America and Samar?
**Eileen:** So Samar was exactly in the middle. The transition to Grofit was very—up—it was very different. And I’m not, you know, I was never all that much of a hippie anyway—Brian was—but so Samar was kind of like in the middle. It was like, on one hand, it was a kibbutz—you know, it was really perfect. I’d say it’s been perfect for a long time—until maybe these last years—for me. It was, on one hand, you know, organized—a structure. There’s a place for, you know… For the kids, it wasn’t like the hippie West Coast thing of, "Oh, you have a kid, you bring the kid, you still hang out in the coffeehouse and fix your truck." You know? So there’s something nice about kibbutz—it was organized—but Samar was still much looser and open. It was really exactly in the middle, I’d say, between the Pacific Northwest and, you know…
**Interviewer:** And what do you think allowed you to fit in—and if I may say—even thrive in a place like this?
**Eileen:** I think because I really felt for many, many, many years—now it’s hard, well, I’ll talk about now later—but I think for most of the time I was here, I felt like there were endless possibilities. That I could be in a very, very small place—in what’s considered in Israel “the middle of nowhere”—but it isn’t if you come from the US; the distances are so much greater there. Here, four hours to Tel Aviv is not that big a deal for people who are used to greater distances. So I felt things were really open—things were really possible. You can live in a small place, but it’s not closed. Most things you want to do, you can do. You can find a way to do them.
When I lived in Grofit—not because it’s Grofit, because there’s any problem with it—but because it was like a regular kibbutz in the way that anything you wanted to do, you had to go through so many kibbutz meetings and so many va’adot (committees) and all of that, that you limit yourself before you even step… Even to decide to work somewhere—I remember I worked in a children’s house and I wanted to work somewhere else, and it was more or less impossible unless I really made a stand and fought with people—and that wasn’t my personality.
**Interviewer:** That was the difference here?
**Eileen:** Here— I mean, I’ll preface everything I’m saying by: most of the time—I think most of the time—Samar was/is based on the fact that you have freedom, but you also have a lot of responsibility. And if you’re willing to take responsibility, you can pretty much make your life the way you want it—as far as where you work, as far as your house, as far as raising your children. Now these days people are kind of a bit cynical about, "Oh yeah, people came to Samar and think everything’s free, you can do whatever you want." There’s a lot of cynicism about that. But to me, that’s why I came, and that’s why I stayed.
**Interviewer:** And just maybe on a very personal level—you did transition between different communities. Is there anything you’ve learned to let go of, or put behind you, when stepping into community life here—in the way you show up and the way you see things?
**Eileen:** Like how I had to change?
**Interviewer:** Maybe, yeah.
**Eileen:** Well, I think in a community you really do need to not only think about yourself—think about other people. Different people have problems in different ways. There are people who only think about themselves and they have to start thinking about other people. And I think I’m kind of the opposite—that I had to sometimes realize that I needed to also think about myself. Because, you know, it’s very strong—what you think you should do for other people and what you think you should do in the community. And so I think it’s totally a balance between doing things for yourself and doing things for the community.
But I think the amazing thing about Samar—in my opinion—it stopped maybe about six–seven years ago—was that there started to be a big differentiation between the person and the community. Until then, it was the same. All our money was together. We had an open money system—you go out and have dinner and later someone takes the money. It’s the same. It doesn’t matter—there’s not a real differentiation between what’s yours and what’s the community’s. And I really think that was the really special thing about Samar—during the time that I raised—I have three daughters—that I raised my children. It wasn’t like, "Do I do something for my kid, or do I do something for the group of kids?" It was together. Like a parent, you’d do something for the group of ten kids—that’s doing something for your kid. Now there’s a lot of… there became a lot of differentiation between what’s yours and what’s the community’s.
**Interviewer:** That’s interesting, because this doesn’t exist in many kibbutzim.
**Eileen:** No. I’d say that’s the thing that was very, very different about Samar—and changed. I knew exactly when it changed. And I think it changed for a reason. That’s part of anarchism also. You know, I have a lot of problems with the amount of structure that happened—so many committees. It was exactly, for me, why I left the other kibbutz. But that’s also part of anarchism, I think—things change according to need.
**Interviewer:** So what is anarchism for you—and how did it manifest here, and how was it, and how did it manifest?
**Eileen:** Not anymore—I don’t think we’re anarchist at all. I think we’re like a regular… You know, there’s a lot of good things about Samar, but I think we’re back. I would say till maybe about six… it wasn’t that long ago—maybe about six–seven years ago—that first of all there were very few committees for a lot of years. If somebody wanted to take responsibility for something, they would take responsibility for something. We didn’t even vote. It wasn’t like "democracy." For a lot of years, we didn’t even really vote. Like, someone would bring an issue—and I guess it’s what maybe would be called consensus now—but if it wasn’t too difficult for anybody, it would happen. Someone could bring an issue and one person could… You know, sometimes it went too much toward the individual—one person could say, "No, there’s no way, I can’t have that happen," and then it wouldn’t happen.
But things became very democratic in the way of a lot of voting and politics, where you have to convince each other of different things. I think for a lot of years Samar was like: if you want something done, you do it. If you didn’t do it, it’s your problem. Like, if you don’t like the food, go work in the kitchen—otherwise don’t complain. Completely based on responsibility—that was kind of it.
It wasn’t rules—it was kind of… You ever see Pirates of the Caribbean, where they say, "It’s not rules, it’s guidelines"? It wasn’t rules—it was like sayings. Like, if you don’t want to do it yourself, don’t expect anyone else to do it.
**Interviewer:** It was the culture.
**Eileen:** That was kind of the culture, yeah. I mean, I’m not here from the beginning—I got here in 1987—and it was probably even different before that. But for a lot of years there was a thing: if you don’t like something somebody does, it’s your responsibility to talk to them personally. And that’s not always easy. So then it kind of became, well, maybe it’s your responsibility to go to the person’s best friend—but that’s like the worst sometimes, because then you know… And I think those interpersonal arguments took a big toll—and take a big toll—on communities. I’d say that’s a problem in Samar.
Because there are communities that have religions, philosophies, that say—Noa t’Smadar—they have their own spiritual way. The religious communities—it’s clear, it’s based on that. Or Damanhur—it’s, you know, anthroposophic… And that, I think, is something that’s the good thing about Samar. I always thought I could never live in a place where everybody thinks a certain thing, because I wouldn’t be… I don’t really have a philosophy like that. But it also, I think, makes it difficult that there are—what—110 members here? And there are people of every kind. Except maybe it’s a bit closer in age—at the beginning people were more or less the same age—but in terms of philosophies, you know, there are people who grew up in kibbutzim, there are messianic Jews, there are pacifists, there are people who are into Kabbalah. There are people who, in a lot of ways, don’t have a lot in common in how they see life—which is good, makes it interesting—but I think we could never find a way of problem-solving because of that. We could never find the… You know, like some places have group discussions, or communities where they have talking circles—like Rainbow—where you pass the stick.
I studied gishur—about five or six of us studied conflict resolution. There was a while I thought, okay, maybe that will really be a way to solve conflicts here. It is, a bit—but it never really took off.
**Interviewer:** And that’s what you think is missing?
**Eileen:** For sure—people have to want to go to gishur. It’s voluntary. People think, "Oh, why should I make up with him? He’s the one who did this to me," and…
**Interviewer:** And what’s the best advice you think you can give someone—there’s a group of people now saying, okay, let’s do it, let’s get a piece of land and try to live over here…
**Eileen:** Well, I think—I don’t know if it’s advice—but I think a lot of problems happen in communities, and in Samar too, over who’s a member of the community and who isn’t. In Samar there started to be a lot of problems because of the vote to be a member. When I first came, we said, "Well, what do we have to do to become members?" And they said, "Ah, there isn’t anything." There wasn’t really a… I said, "It can’t be that you can just come and there isn’t anything." "Oh, well, yeah, maybe some people say there’s a vote, but not everybody’s been voted on." You know—it was like… When I first came, we were told, "Well, there really isn’t—if you’re here, you’re here, and if you’re not here, you’re not here." That sounded kind of good, but it didn’t really seem like that could be true. And then it kind of turned out that there really was a vote—but back then it was much easier to be voted as a member.
And then it became institutionalized because of the issue of sleeping in children’s houses. Let’s say I came in 1987—maybe about a year, a year and a half later—there were a lot of people who didn’t agree on the kibbutz whether the children should sleep in the children’s house. There were already—first one family and then three families—who didn’t wait for any vote; they just said, "I’m not having my kids sleep in the children’s house," and they just took their kids home. And it became difficult, because other people whose kids were in the children’s houses—who believed in it—their kids said, "Why? How come my friend gets to sleep at home?" They could care less about the ideology. So in order to decide where the kids would sleep, there had to be a way of deciding—which is by voting.
So then it became important who can vote and who couldn’t. From what I remember, it started to be that, like, the mosad had to be accepted in kablanut (formal membership), and there was a group of people—like five or six people—who, for ideological reasons, decided they did not want to be kibbutz members, even though they’d been here a long time. So then there was a thing where we just accepted them all at once—like, "Let’s solve it." But that’s because it was a long time ago and there wasn’t very much—there wasn’t a lot of money, the houses were really small. It’s not like everybody’s dying to come to this place. When more people started to want to come—and things were still open with an open money system, and you could work however much you want or not—then it became important who’s here and who isn’t. Because the minute someone’s a member, really nobody can tell you… Someone can say, "You have to work," and they can say, "Who are you to tell me what to do? You work. I don’t want to work—you work."
So then the vote changed to two-thirds of the whole community. And then problems started—people started not to be accepted, even before that, but more and more. Sometimes it was people’s friends. It didn’t often happen with the best people… So I think that made more problems—like a lot of problems in Samar. And that’s what led to the hafratah (privatization) in 19— [trails off].
**Interviewer:** So what would be your advice—personal as can be?
**Eileen:** My advice—not to have a vote for membership. I don’t know, but I know there are places—like in Lotan—they used to say: somebody stays when they come. They stay—if there’s no problem—"If it’s not broken, don’t fix it." If there’s no problem, they stay, and after two or three years the kibbutz gives them a party. And if there’s a problem, then it’s brought to the community. But yeah, I would say that’s really… And that’s been like the plot here in Samar—we wanted to be open about everything, but in order to be open, then you have to set limits. Because if people come who aren’t going to work and take a lot of money, then we can’t continue the way we are.
**Interviewer:** And maybe also on a personal level—let’s say I’m about to make this choice. I’m moving from a capitalist life, and I have an opportunity to move onto a piece of land with a bunch of people—what advice would you give an individual who’s about to make this change?
**Eileen:** First of all, make sure it’s not anything you feel like you’re giving up. When we came—both of us, maybe Brian even more than me—it was like, we came because we wanted. It was kind of like living in suburbia like our upper-middle-class parents—that was like the worst-case scenario. We were like, no, no—we want to go somewhere where there’s as little as possible. Israel was pretty perfect then, because there just wasn’t… There was TV, but there was only one channel. There wasn’t junk food. In the 80s it was kind of like what the hippies were struggling for in the US—it was just because Israel was pretty non-developed then.
So to me it wasn’t… It was kind of the opposite—it’s been kind of hard to deal with all of the homar yoter (consumerism), you know, everything that came later. So I’d say: just make sure that’s how they really want to live. That it’s not sacrificing something. It’s not like saying, "Oh, I would really like this and this and this, but I’m going to give it up to go live on the land." That this is the way they really want to live.
It’s funny, because I didn’t ever really think I would like to live out in the country when I was younger. I like cities—you know, I like movies, I like to take the theatre, I like… the things that there are in cities. But there’s only so much you can do. What I think is wonderful about communities—it’s kind of like, how much can you do? What’s the difference if you can decide between ten plays to see in Tel Aviv or one play that will come here? It’s not really any different. If you can… So many things.
But Samar is different because people here are very creative, very artistic. I do theater, and there’s always been theater in the region. In Eilat—down the kibbutzim—now because of TANTRUM, Eilat—now there’s an amazing theater group in Eilat. So I’m not sure I would feel that way living everywhere. I think that was partly what I sensed when I came to Samar—that it’s very creative and there are a lot of creative people.
I mean, I’m not a farmer. Brian was a farmer and then he switched—he started the solar energy here. And he didn’t have an easy time in Samar pushing it through—people didn’t know what he was talking about. It was the early 90s. But that was the good thing—at least… Some people could say that was really the key to how we got into problems—but in my opinion the good thing then was: if you had a vision and you believed in something, it didn’t matter if everybody else thought it was a good idea. You could still take money to set something up. It’s up to your conscience to decide what’s too much, but nobody would stop you. Maybe they would want to—that’s because now things are very, very organized. I think it’s gone the other direction.
**Interviewer:** And what do you think is the lower… and it’s closest that the kibbutz is going for?
**Eileen:** You know, I was not happy about the process. On the other hand, Samar had become very much like a regular kibbutz—a kibbutz shitufi. A lot of the freedom and anarchy was already not part of it. People like Ori will say, "Oh, now with the mitchadesh (renewed kibbutz), we’ll be so much closer to it." I… In the years before the process started, there were already a lot of changes—like, because there wasn’t enough money, you had to be voted on to study, voted on to take money to go abroad—things that we never did.
That’s also another big piece of advice: really find a way to be financially independent. I think a lot of this happened for financial reasons.
**Interviewer:** What do you think—your role?
**Eileen:** My role? Okay—so when it started, it was clear to me that it kind of had to happen, because that’s what most people want, and it’s obvious that’s the direction of things. I think also when some people’s children started not being accepted, people started feeling they didn’t have anything to give to their children, if they didn’t know that they would be accepted as members. So when it started, I was really in a dilemma, because all of the reasons that I came to Samar—none of them… The imlaya dabitui (the expressed essence) in this process—it’s all… I came to Samar because it was all kind of… There was no philosophy, but if there was a philosophy I would say it’s kind of Taoist—that things just continue in the natural order of things. And that’s what I like and that’s what I believe in. And all of a sudden there’s this process where everything is under a microscope—there’s chishbonot (accounting), there’s a weighing about everything, and everything is ksaf (money), everything is bureaucracy.
I think it’s done well, because they’ve… I think Ilan is doing it in a good way—because there are a lot of sub-groups and there’s a lot of discussion—but for me it was kind of a dilemma. My main feeling is: wake me when it’s over. I can live with whatever—wake me when it’s over. I don’t want to be part of this whole process. On the other hand, there are things that are important to me—the communal things in Samar are really important to me. I think the dining room is really a center of everything, and it would be really sad for me if it closed. The pool… So I participate in it, and I was in one of the committees of the—how do you say—arvut hadadit?
**Interviewer:** Interdependence, yeah.
**Eileen:** Interdependence—because I felt like, okay, I’ll join that group because that’s what’s important to me, and I really don’t want that to get lost down there.
**Interviewer:** But maybe even when I’m asking "what’s your role," it’s not necessarily which committee—maybe, you know… like—
**Eileen:** What’s my role?
**Interviewer:** How do you see yourself as a community member—what’s your…
**Eileen:** Well, I think as a community member, I believe it will be exactly the same. I worked in the school as a librarian, and I also work in children’s books—yeah, the children’s books. First of all, I just retired, so my whole question of work and all of that is… true—I’m even more of a Samar’nik than I ever was, because now I work on the kibbutz where I walk to it. So I think that my life is more or less the same—that I will more or less do what I want to do, and contribute where I want to contribute, which is what I’ve always done.
For me a big question now is the next generation—my children. I have three daughters. One won’t live here—her husband is from India. My other two daughters are considering it. I have a very strong feeling of having failed the next generation—that we could not pass on this amazing free, anarchist place to them. You know, I always felt that, well, I tried to do a lot in life and accomplish a lot and be a good parent—but at least I’ve been part of this kind of artistic, creative experiment.
So I have… It’s hard for me—that feeling that that does not exist anymore. But it’s very interesting, because I think for two of my daughters—if they come here—it’s only a plus. They feel like, no, it was way too much. They need to live in a much more organized place. It doesn’t come from them… flip one—
**Interviewer:** Well, it might—well, you know—
**Eileen:** Oh, s***, yeah. But that’s the good thing. I think young families will come and they’ll change it into whatever they’ll change it into. What we see now—I think now is the worst—we see it as something very, very structured and organized, with a lot of rules and a lot of… It has to happen. But to me, the whole division that happens in hafratah of what’s mine and what’s the community’s is very anti-community. It was the same for a long time—but I know that I kind of see things differently.
**Interviewer:** And to ask a similar question, but on this topic: all over the world there’s a wave now—there’s a generational shift in a lot of the older communities—Portugal, Damanhur, I’m sure they’re probably going through that as well. From your perspective, going through what you’re going through in Samar, what would you say to someone now seeing the community at home change and feeling very afraid of that?
**Eileen:** I’d say the only thing worse than change is not changing. You have to change—especially when there are different generations. All throughout history the older generation cannot believe how the younger generation sees things. Whether you like it or not—whether it’s hard for you or not—things have to change, because that’s nature. That’s life. And… not changing… You know, Samar is a full kind of… because I think, “Oh, I can’t stand the change—everything’s becoming so institutionalized,” and the other thing—how to keep Samar the way it was—that’s the most… that’s the most institutional.
**Interviewer:** I would just say that even the greatest revolutionaries—the moment they seize power, they will become the most institutional.
**Eileen:** They can—yeah, they can. Advice to communities—I think it’s really hard. I think when you live in a community, you see people are always coming and always leaving, and you don’t have energy to meet new people—say every year there’s titchanot shnati (annual cycles). But I think it’s important to feel that people will bring new things. In Samar the whole way of accepting people for membership was: "Well, let’s see if they’re like us. Let’s see if they’ll work like us. Let’s see if they want to live like us." And I think that’s really a problem. My advice to communities would be to always look at new people not as the problems they’ll bring to the community, but realize that you need new people. After a few years, the same people say the same things in every kibbutz meeting—over 20–25 years you know exactly what everybody is going to say every time. So you really need new people.