Hey, I’m Noam Weissman and this is Unpacking Israeli History, the podcast that takes a deep dive into some of the most intense, historically fascinating, and often misunderstood events and stories linked to Israeli history. This episode of Unpacking Israeli History is generously sponsored by Friedkin Philanthropies and the Koret Foundation, and is inspired by ISRAEL 21c. If you want to sponsor an episode of Unpacking Israeli History, or if you just want to say hey, be in touch at noam@unpacked.media.
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I don’t usually start off podcast episodes with questions, but hey, after eight seasons, it’s time to mix it up a little. Here goes: What do Jerry Seinfeld, Bernie Sanders, Boris Johnson, and some education/history nerd named Noam Weissman have in common?
No, this isn’t the opener to a joke, though honestly, if you can come up with a good punchline, email it to me. It’s not that we’re all Jews, because Boris Johnson, not a member of the tribe. And it’s not that we’re all A-list celebrities – because that goes without saying. (Though my wife likes to call me a C+ Jewish celebrity…I’ll take it. I guess?) It’s that all four of these people – as well as a boatload of others, both famous and otherwise – have volunteered on a kibbutz.
Now, I have two basic questions to start off with:
- What’s a kibbutz? Do you know?…
- Why might it be the best kept secret that could help Western society revive itself?
So let’s start with A:
A kibbutz is (ready for this mouthful?) a socialist agrarian collective that’s unique to Israel – though these days, most kibbutzim (that’s the plural of kibbutz) are neither socialist nor agrarian. I actually hate the word agrarian. It’s almost as bad as rural. When I was younger, I had a speech impediment and could not say the letter R…These words…They stink!
Anyway, still, much of that original kibbutz ethos remains. Collective responsibility. Everyone contributing in one way or another. Even the tourists who pay to visit kibbutzim have no expectation of being served. You eat in the dining hall, you clear your own dishes, y’know?
I was 18 years old when I volunteered on a kibbutz. It was incredible – though it was 2003, the energy was very 1948: scrappy, informal, no-frills. And also: warm. Purposeful. Alive.
If it sounds like I’m describing Israel in general, well, yeah. Kibbutzim are home to a tiny fraction of Israelis. At their absolute peak in 1989, these communes never boasted more than 130,000 people, roughly 2% of Israel’s population. But this tiny movement has had an outsized impact on Israeli history.
Five Israeli Prime Ministers – that’s more than a third of all prime ministers! – were kibbutznikim, i.e. people from a kibbutz. So were countless Israeli icons: Moshe Dayan, the one-eyed military legend and politician. The writer Amos Oz. Even former Prime Minister Golda Meir.
The kibbutz system gave rise to so many of Israel’s cultural quirks: the folk dances; the all-hands-on-deck, just-get-it-done attitude; the profound, dirt-under-your-fingernails connection to the land that is, to me, the most powerful symbol of Zionism.
Even the kova tembel, the ridiculous bucket hat that looks good on nobody yet came to symbolize the native Israeli. (NERD ALERT: kova is Hebrew for hat, but tembel is slang for idiot – which means that Israel’s national fashion icon, aside from being hideously ugly, is literally a dunce cap.)
Over the years, we’ve gotten a lot of requests to cover the kibbutz movement. And every time it came up, my team and I would nod enthusiastically and say, yes, what a great idea, and add it to our never-ending list. I mean, if you’d asked me when I was growing up, hey, what are three words that symbolize Israel to you, “kibbutz” would be like, number two. And yet, these days, when you ask a young person for three words that define Israel, very few say “kibbutz.” But the kibbutz movement is where Israel’s national ethos was forged, where young Jews took control of their own history for the first time in centuries, a tiny laboratory in which early Zionist pioneers experimented with building institutions.
It wasn’t always pretty. It wasn’t always fun. But it was a crucial movement that shaped Israeli history before the state even existed.
And like so many other important moments in Israeli history, the rise of the kibbutz has been eclipsed by all that came after.
Massacres. Wars. The Holocaust. Even October 7th.
We’ve covered our fair share of these bummer topics on the podcast. After all, we’re dedicated to telling the story of Israel – the good, the bad, the ugly, the revolutionary, the morally complicated. And the kibbutz movement encompasses all of that and more.
So for the next two weeks, we’re going to tell that story, from the very first kibbutz until the present day. In this episode, we’ll talk about the founding principles that drove the movement, the idealism and back-breaking labor it required, the experiments in communal living that worked until they didn’t. In episode two, we’ll zoom out to the role of the movement in Israeli society, from agriculture to defense. And we’ll discuss how and why this movement has changed over time – and what remains the same.
So let’s dive in to part one of our two-part series with the very first chapter:
Chapter 1: Em Hakvutzot, or: The Mother of the Kibbutzim
The first kibbutz wasn’t actually really a kibbutz. At least, not at first. The legendary Kibbutz Deganya started off as a kvutza, a collective, established by 12 young people in the fall of 1910.
Ten men. Two women. One mildly insane dream. Powered by little more than chutzpah, idealism, and maybe a touch of existential despair, the founders of the first kvutza set about making their mildly insane dream a slightly-less-insane reality.
It’s not a coincidence that they were extremely young – some of them still teenagers. You need energy to bring mildly insane visions to life. And it’s also no coincidence that every single one of them had fled the violent antisemitism of Eastern Europe, because there is no motivator quite like desperation. As Ari Shavit puts it in My Promised Land:
Zionism was an orphans’ movement, a desperate crusade of Europe’s orphans. As the unwanted sons and daughters of the Christian continent fled the hatred of their surrogate mother, they discovered they were all alone in the world. Godless, parentless, and homeless, they had to survive. Having lost one civilization, they had to construct another. Having lost their homeland, they had to invent another. That is why they came to Palestine, and why they now cling to the land with such desperate determination.
Like many immigrants of the Second Aliyah – the wave of Jewish immigration to Ottoman Palestine between 1904 and 1914 – the 12 founders of the first kvutza came with nothing. No money. No family, in most cases. No real knowledge of farming. But what they lacked in practical skills, they made up for in idealism. Agricultural principles could be taught. But as for shared values and an audacious vision, you either had them or you didn’t.
Well, this group had shared values and audacity in spades – even if said audacious vision wasn’t technically “theirs.” Like many Zionist pioneers, the founders of Kibbutz Deganya were inspired by the writings of the philosopher Aaron David Gordon, who is today largely considered the spiritual father of the Kibbutz movement.
“A. D.”, or “א. ד.” Gordon, as he’s generally known, gave European socialism a tribal twist. He kept the basics of solidarity and collective consciousness, but added a spiritual, even redemptive, element, envisioning an ideal society organized into collectives – aka, kvutza (singular) or kvutzot (plural).
Kvutza is one of those nuanced Hebrew words with multiple related meanings. In modern Hebrew, it just means group, or maybe assemblage if you’re trying to get fancy. But underneath that simplicity was something deeper: that of ingathering people who had been dispersed for millennia.
If you’ve ever opened a siddur, a Jewish prayer book, this isn’t a surprise to you. Three times a day, observant Jews pray for “the ingathering of exiles,” aka “kibbutz galuyot.” For centuries, this ingathering was little more than a far-off dream, a distant promise that one day, the world’s Jews would finally shuck off the yoke of the Diaspora and return home as a unified people.
This promise came true, in part, just a few decades after the founding of the first kibbutz, with the establishment of a modern Jewish state. But in 1910, when our story begins, most (not all) of these ingathered exiles were flocking to Ottoman Palestine from the same inhospitable place: Eastern Europe.
Including the 12 founders of Deganya.
There was 20-year-old Yosef Baratz (bah-RUTS), born in what is today Moldova, who would go on to join Israel’s first-ever Knesset.
There was 21-year-old Miriam Ostrovski, born in Ukraine to a religious family, who insisted on full equality for the women of the kibbutzim.
There was 19-year-old Yosef Bussel (BOO-sel), the intellectual leader, born in what is today Belarus.
There was 22-year-old Ukrainian-born Tanchum Tanpilov (tan-PEE-lov), the strongest worker of the bunch.
There was 25-year-old Sarah Malchin (MAL-cheen), born in Latvia, a firebrand from the very beginning.
And there were seven others, whose stories we don’t have time to delve into, but who shared the iron conviction and boundless energy of the young. All of Deganya’s founders were fiercely devoted to their purpose, which A.D. Gordon describes as follows. Quote:
“The basic idea of the kvutza is to arrange its communal life through the strength of the communal idea, through aspiration and the spiritual life, and through communal work, so that the members will be interdependent and will influence each other along their positive qualities.”
And what exactly did that communal work entail? Here’s Gordon again, quote:
“The Jewish people have been completely cut off from nature and imprisoned within city walls for two thousand years. We have been accustomed to every form of life, except a life of labor… done at our behalf and for its own sake… for it is labor which binds a people to its soil and to its national culture.”
Let me repeat that: Completely cut off from nature. It is labor which binds a people to its soil. In other words, Gordon – and his acolytes – envisioned the communal work of the kvutza as primarily agricultural, what I like to call, as you know, “dirt under your fingernails Zionism.” As a reclamation of the original Jewish labor. The OG Israelites, after all, were shepherds and farmers, and most Jewish holidays are rooted in the agricultural cycles of the land. The Torah is full of agricultural rules that only apply in the Land of Israel, and the Talmud dissects and debates these rules in ways that had remained more or less theoretical for centuries.
Exile robbed the Jewish people of their home, their rootedness, their soil. Cut off from their land, the Jewish people forgot what it meant to feel the dirt under their nails. And Gordon, like many early Zionist thinkers, viewed this forgetting not only as a tragic byproduct of exile, but as a kind of moral failure. Here he is again:
“At times I feel ashamed before our homeland… Everywhere you go others do our work for us and we do not work for ourselves…and the question arises…how shall we, the Hebrew people, achieve a moral and national right to the Land of Israel if not by our own labor?”
Needless to say, Gordon was deeply opposed to the concept of hiring others to do agricultural work. And he wasn’t afraid to call out the Jewish communities of Ottoman Palestine who relied on Arab laborers. These workers were cheap and efficient, and unlike many of the pioneers, they actually knew what they were doing.
But to Gordon, that was the problem, that was it. If the Jewish people wanted to reclaim their ancestral identity – not to mention their homeland – they had no business hiring others to get down and dirty, literally, with the land.
It wasn’t enough to buy the land legally. As Gordon saw it, the “moral and national right” to live in the Land of Israel was not conferred by a land deed. It could come only from an intimate real relationship with the land, and with the backbreaking work required to make that land yield fruit.
The twelve young people who founded Deganya agreed completely. They even chose an agricultural name for their new community. Deganya is a type of flower, but it’s also a reference to the Hebrew word for grain, dagan. Not that the land was ready to yield anything resembling a major crop. Back in 1910, the area that would become Deganya was swampy, muddy, and absolutely lousy with mosquitos – which meant malaria. In fact, much of Ottoman Palestine was, if not uninhabitable, profoundly inhospitable. To the south lay arid desert, while the north was mostly rocky soil and malarial swamps.
Nevertheless, the Jewish National Fund (AKA JNF) bought up all the land they could, offering it to whatever idealists were crazy enough to spend their youth risking malaria, mucking out swamps, and coaxing the soil to yield. And – as I keep saying – you did have to be a little crazy to take the JNF up on their offer. Because pioneer life was not fun as we imagine fun.
As Daniel Gavron (gav-RON) puts it in his book, The Kibbutz: Awakening from Utopia, quote:
The work was backbreaking; the living conditions were harsh. In the summer the heat was unbearable; in the winter the youngsters were up to their thighs in mud. Several of the group were already suffering from malaria, and now the others also caught it. In the words of an early pioneer, “the body is crushed, the legs fail, the head hurts, the sun bums and weakens.” …sometimes as many as half the members couldn’t report for work.
And here’s Ari Shavit, quoting an early kibbutznik from Kibbutz Ein Harod:
In parched, sunstruck fields we are now faced with naked rocks, exposed to the fire above. Face to face with the elements, face to face with brutal existence, no protection at all. And here, in this desolate valley, we must sculpt our lives. From these rocks we must carve our new foundation.
I’ll be honest: Zionist dream notwithstanding, I don’t think I would have been awesome at hacking it. I have a hard enough time with the humidity and mosquitoes here in South Florida. (I’m soft. What can I say?)
To be fair, though, it’s not just me. Nearly half of the 75,000 or so Jews who emigrated to Palestine from 1880 to 1914 ended up leaving, some within only a few months. Tragically, some didn’t even live long enough to make it back to Europe. Hundreds of early immigrants died of malaria – an occupational hazard of living in a swamp.
But the 12 OG founders of Deganya did not leave. They had already brushed up against the limits that the world imposed on them because of their religion or gender, and they weren’t going to let something as small as deathly illness and backbreaking labor get in the way of their dreams.
Early Zionism was a heady and transgressive movement. It takes chutzpah to overcome two millennia of disenfranchisement and persecution, to refuse the narrative of Jewish weakness, to demand an end to exile. But as the two female founders of Degnaya, Miriam and Sarah, soon learned, that audacious imagination did not extend to the role of women in the movement, who were initially expected to stick to “traditional” female roles, like cooking, cleaning and sewing.
But neither woman was the docile type.
Miriam campaigned hard to be included in the backbreaking agricultural work, eventually wearing everyone down with a combination of stubbornness, grit, and surprising physical strength. It was Miriam who came up with the idea to bring cows to the kibbutz, Miriam who insisted on running the dairy. But she was away when the cows arrived, and by the time she returned, the men had taken over the responsibility.
Again, Miriam wasn’t about it. She learned to milk cows in a nearby Arab village. Once she was satisfied with her prowess, she returned to Deganya, where she rose even earlier than the men. By the time they made their way to the dairy, blinking and bleary-eyed, they found the cows already milked, and Miriam standing there with what I have to assume was a satisfied smirk. After that, the men gave up on the concept of “women’s work” and “men’s work.” From that day forward, Deganya – and future kibbutzim – was more or less fully egalitarian.
Sarah Malchin was no less stubborn. She arrived in Palestine determined to become the Zionist movement’s first female agricultural worker. Her ideas about equality extended into every aspect of life, and in a wild departure from the norm, she proposed to the guy she was seeing. Today, that might not sound like a big deal. But back then, young people in Palestine were scandalizing their elders by getting together without involving matchmakers; it was unheard of for a woman to propose to a man. (The guy said no, by the way, and Sarah decided she was done with romance. )
But if Sarah was disenchanted with the singles scene in Ottoman Palestine, Miriam was not. In 1912, she married fellow kibbutz co-founder Yosef Baratz (bah-RUTS) – the first of Deganya’s couple to tie the knot. The raucous wedding party, which doubled as a celebration of Deganya’s first harvest, lasted until two am – at which point the bride excused herself and went to milk the cows.
Classic. Who cared if it was her wedding day? Miriam, like the other kibbutz founders, was motivated by a dream far bigger than she was. Everything – every mosquito bite, every cow that kicked her, every second in the mud, every sunburn – was in service of the most important goal she could imagine. The pioneers at Deganya knew that they weren’t just working for themselves. They were working for each other, for the generations to come. And they were working not just to cultivate the land, but to cultivate a new Jewish identity. To reclaim and redefine what it meant to be a Jew.
We have spoken before, at length, about the early Zionist ideal of the New Jew. About the men and women who looked at Jewish history and said enough. No more persecution. No more pogroms. And, for God’s sake, no more waiting around for redemption. After two thousand years of praying to God to end their exile and restore their dignity, they were taking matters into their own hands. They refused to be victims. They would be masters of their own destiny.
And that destiny did not involve private property – or anything approaching privacy in general.
Like I said, early kibbutznikim were hardcore socialists. Emphasis on hardcore. Private property was snobbish, bourgeois, totally out of place in the kvutza. So Deganya’s founders shared everything: The profits of the farm. The tools. The livestock. The food they ate. The little concrete huts they called home. Even their clothes. If someone received a gift, it became the property of the Kibbutz. When reparations began to trickle in from West Germany in the years after the Holocaust, it, too, would be absorbed by the Kibbutz and distributed equally – even if there was only one survivor in the bunch. This was socialism in its purest form, a genuine expression of the Marxist axiom “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.”
And it actually worked.
Well… for a while. Eventually, most kibbutzim left socialism behind, for the very simple reason that most people don’t want to share everything. But until the 1980sish, most kibbutzim thrived as functional socialist societies – seeming proof that under the right conditions, socialism might actually work.
“The right conditions,” of course, involved opting in. The kibbutz wasn’t some top-down, government-imposed system. If you happened to want things like privacy or disposable income, you just… lived elsewhere. (Like Golda Meir, whose husband put up with kibbutz life for three years before he persuaded her to throw in the towel.)
But early kibbutznikim were idealists. They wanted to share everything, including responsibility for decisions. With no hierarchy or leaders, all kibbutznikim were equal, and they made decisions using a very clean version of direct democracy: one person, one vote, no matter how big or small the decision. In the earliest days of Deganya, all decisions had to be unanimous, which meant countless hours of deliberation and debate. Eventually, the inefficiency of this system wore down our founders, and they traded unanimity for majority rule.
It’s hard to overstate how dedicated Deganya’s founders were to this ethos. Zionism was a communal endeavor, after all. And nothing represented the communal life of the Kibbutz like the dining hall.
Kibbutz members did not have kitchens in their homes, so they ate every meal together in the dining hall. Those meals often involved stories, singing, and dancing, which sounds like a lot to me, but which was no doubt very fulfilling after an exhausting day of work.
The communal nature of the dining hall was sacred. When one kibbutznik acquired a burner and kettle to keep in his house, his comrades were outraged at the thought that he might have coffee alone in his home instead of in the dining hall with everyone else. It was an introvert’s nightmare.
But our founders had come to Palestine to establish a community, and they protected their little collective with religious fervor. The commitment to the collective was creed; labor took on the sanctity of ritual. The kibbutz lifestyle became their religion.
Actual religion, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. Today, you’ll find a few religious kibbutzim in Israel, but the OG movement was strictly secular. Old-school Judaism was viewed as a Diaspora sort of thing. The quote – New Jew – had no place or patience for old traditions.
Or so they proclaimed. But even as the young, scrappy Kibbutznikim revolted against the religious practice of their parents and grandparents, they remained intensely Jewish.
They kept Saturday – Shabbat – as their day of rest. As long as they could afford it, they brought out the finest foods for Friday night dinner, and they made it a party, singing and dancing through the night. They relished the opportunity to bring their own meaning into Jewish holidays like Pesach, Sukkot and Shavuot – many of which had lost their original agricultural significance over two millennia separated from the land. Some Kibbutzim even created their own observance of Yom Kippur – using the holiest day of the Jewish calendar to take stock of the past year and reflect on whatever problems their kibbutz might face.
Like, for example, the problem of children.
Chapter Two: The Children’s House
When Miriam Ostrovsky-Baratz (bah-RUTS) gave birth to Deganya’s first baby in 1913, her fellow kibbutznikim were overjoyed.
They were also at a loss.
Miriam and Yosef’s marriage had been destabilizing enough. The kibbutznikim worried that a contained family unit would interfere with their communal living style. (Remember, this was a group that saw a kettle as a personal insult.) To their relief, not much changed after Miriam and Yosef’s wedding. But now there was a baby in the mix, and little Gidon Baratz (bah-RUTS) threatened to upend Deganya’s entire way of life.
Deganya’s founders simply hadn’t reckoned with the ideology of it all. Did Gideon belong to Miriam and Yosef, or was the baby communal property, like everything else on the kibbutz? And what about childcare? Whose responsibility was it to actually raise this little guy?
Despite the physical demands of pregnancy, childbirth, and nursing, Miriam had no intention of shirking her responsibility as a laborer. At her insistence, the kibbutznikim decided that the work and expense of raising children would fall to all members.
But future kibbutzim took this ethos a step further. And this is where things get wild.
As soon as a kid turned six months old, he or she was moved from their parents’ home to a dedicated Children’s House, living with all the other kids on the kibbutz. They’d still see their parents all the time, of course, hanging out after work or school. But family life as we know it was simply not allowed to exist.
And if this gives you the heebie-jeebies, well, yeah, I get it. But let’s steelman this for a second, because OG Kibbutznikim weren’t trying to be cruel or inhumane. This decision was deeply rooted in their ideological commitment to egalitarianism and collectivism. Parents were far more productive without the burden and responsibility of raising children. And if the whole point was the collective, the community, then really, who needed a nuclear family? The whole kibbutz was a family, full stop.
Like every other element of Kibbutz culture, the Children’s House was driven by idealism. I want to reiterate: No one was forced to give up their kids. The kibbutz parents truly believed their children would thrive in a communal setting.
And some did. Many old-school kibbutznikim have very fond memories of childhoods filled with independence and camaraderie. But even the most independent kid needs their parents. And some of their stories are truly heartbreaking.
This could be a subjective memory, but I do recall someone crying all night, every night.
I cried quietly so as not to wake the others. I felt I wouldn’t get through the night without my mom.
Then the night madness kicked in. I’d put on my slippers and walk over to their house.
I remember trying not to get caught by the night guard. Walking from tree to tree, hiding. All I wanted was to sit by her bed. Not even to wake her up. I didn’t want to be hugged or kissed. I just wanted to be with her. Just to be with her.
Those quotes come from a deeply sad documentary about the Children’s Houses, called Children of the Sun. It’s full of wrenching stories of kids sneaking away at night to see their parents, only to be reprimanded and returned to the Children’s House. Unsurprisingly, many adults who grew up like this suffer from emotional numbness, difficulty forming personal bonds, and fear of abandonment.
And all this focus on community and collective carried another toll. Adults actively discouraged children from standing out as individuals. Noam Shpancer (shPUN-tzer) is a psychologist who grew up in a Children’s House on Kibbutz Nachshon. Here’s how he described the experience, quote:
The pressure to conform was relentless. Individuality and competition were looked down upon. Children who were unusual, eccentric or sought to distinguish themselves, were shunned. We were socialised to be strong and sunny, simple and similar. Emotional expression was demeaned as weak and self-involved. We learned to numb ourselves. I haven’t cried since I was 10. I’d like to but I can’t.
Even the adults who look back fondly on their childhoods in the Children’s Houses – and yes, there are many of them! – chose not to send their own children away, which is the most damning indictment of the system that I can imagine. Still, it wasn’t until the 1970s that the kibbutz system abolished the Children’s Houses completely, allowing the nuclear family to thrive.
Look, I’m not trying to judge, but in hindsight, this whole policy seems like a bit much, a bit much, is that the theme of this episode, like a little insane. As one member of Kibbutz Hatzerim put it, “I thought our parents were crazy to abolish the communal sleeping for their children. Now that I am a parent myself, I can’t understand how they ever permitted it.”
The Children’s Houses are probably the most widely criticized artifact of old-school kibbutz culture. But they demonstrate the sanctity of the collective, and the depth of the idealism required to live in a way that most of us probably find unnatural.
Then again, as we keep saying, the founders of the kibbutz system had to be idealists. Aside from the physical and mental toll of building a community from scratch, kibbutznikim were profoundly aware of their role as Israel’s first line of defense – even before Israel existed.
But that is a story for next week, and the conclusion of our two-part series on kibbutzim.
But before I go, I want to share one more thing. I usually wait until the end of part 2 for an enduring lesson as I see it, but I wanted to come back to the second question I posed at the top of the pod. How and why can the West be helped by adding a little “kibbutz mentality” to our lives?
I’ll explain – Back in 2018, the The National Institutes of Health (NIH), a part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, reported that participation in AmeriCorps, which is a stipend volunteer agency of the US government, is actually correlated with higher levels of civic responsibility, voting, volunteering, employment, respect for diversity, and overall life skills such as decision making and time management.”
Scott Galloway, marketing guru and fellow podcaster (and a guest on the Unpacking Israeli History live show in London, explained:
We should ramp up AmeriCorps and define service broadly, as our nation’s needs are as diverse as our people. How young people serve — being rural firefighters, volunteering in a no-kill animal shelter, helping seniors, working in our national parks, — isn’t nearly as important as the service itself.
Service, living a life of service, of giving more than you take, of thinking more about the collective than the individual, is in some ways antithetical to the American dream of full independence and liberty. And don’t get me wrong, I love those ideas too, but to be honest, something gets lost there.
Galloway continues:
National service in Singapore, the most religiously diverse nation on Earth, is called “school for the nation,” because of its ability to forge a national identity. A study that looked at Singapore’s national service programs concluded that socialization is a key mechanism for transmitting norms and values, while contact with people from different groups reduces prejudice.
Whether you are in Singapore, Israel, or the U.S., national service can transmit values and reduce prejudice, and forge a national identity.
Something to think through here in the West – and we’ll speak more about this collectivism in Part 2, next week.
Unpacking Israeli History is a production of Unpacked, an OpenDor Media brand. Follow us wherever you get your podcasts. If you enjoyed this episode, leave us a rating on Apple or Spotify, it really helps other people find our show. And one more time, I love hearing from you. So email me at noam@unpacked.media.
This episode was produced by Rivky Stern. Our team for this episode includes Danny Hoffman, Adi Elbaz, and Rob Pera. I’m your host, Noam Weissman. Thanks for being here, see you next week for Part 2.