In a place built on the very promise of shared living, where every meal, every struggle, every triumph was meant to be collective, how did isolation slip through the cracks?
My name is Keren Damboritz, a psychotherapist from Jerusalem. When my colleague Yonatan Sinclair invited me to work with factory workers in the kibbutzim near the Gaza Envelope, I discovered a heartbreaking paradox.
These communities, historically designed to eliminate individual suffering through collective support, were now filled with people feeling profoundly isolated in their pain.
The kibbutz - a place where walls were meant to be thin, where private and communal blended seamlessly - had become a landscape of silent struggles. Workers functioning outwardly, but inwardly wrestling with trauma, grief, and uncertainty.
Our resilience workshops became more than just meetings. They reclaimed the kibbutz's original promise: that no one should suffer alone.
At first, many workers questioned our work. "Why do we need to talk about resilience?" they'd ask. "We're functioning, aren't we?"
But functioning isn't the same as flourishing.
What I discovered was a profound truth about human connection: loneliness can exist even in the most tightly-knit communities. The very structure that was supposed to protect and support had, in many ways, become a barrier to genuine emotional sharing.
We created a shared emotional language. We broke down the walls of silence that had grown between people who lived and worked side by side.
Workers learned that vulnerability isn't weakness - it's the truest form of strength, especially in a community built on collective resilience.
Our workshops became a lifeline - a space where the unspoken could finally be acknowledged. We explored tools for emotional regulation, for understanding themselves and each other more deeply. The factory floor became more than a place of work; it transformed into a healing space.
The transformation was remarkable.
As workers began to share, to truly see each other, something magical happened. Their individual resilience became a collective power. The kibbutz was reclaiming its original promise - that no one stands alone.
In a world that often asks us to push through, to keep going no matter what, we discovered something revolutionary: true resilience isn't about enduring in silence. It's about reconnecting, sharing, and lifting each other up - the very essence of what a kibbutz was always meant to be.
Our work in the Gaza Envelope taught me that when we create space for genuine human connection, we don't just survive. We rebuild. We heal. We remember what it means to truly be a community.
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