Habonim as a Social Space - Ella Mendelow

Introduction

Casting my mind back on a decade in Habonim, perhaps my most fulfilling recollections are of witnessing an uninitiated chaver (Member)[1] step into the Habonim universe for the first time. How often have I seen a new face flicker with scepticism as this vibrant and playful, yet undeniably strange landscape unfolds before them. Time and again, I’ve observed an initial disorientation as one enters a place where people dance on the casual and speak a foreign lingo with remarkable fluency, as if it were their first. I know all too well the quizzical look of one arriving in this unfamiliar environment, and their reluctance to participate in the peculiar scene.

And then, I’ve seen them hesitate. I’ve watched them contemplate; and gradually become bemused by their surroundings as curiosity begins to stir. I’ve seen them test the waters: just a lyric is sung. Tentatively at first, then in torrents, I’ve seen confusion give way to understanding. Over the years, it has been a marvel to witness another discover a sense of belonging within the realm of Habonim. To see them explore facets of themselves never permissible beyond the borders of the campsite. To watch them once again learn how to play; to revel in a prolonged childhood, cut short by the outside world. The shyest kids, now in the foreground, becoming pioneers of their own experience. To have walked that path myself – what a privileged decade it has been indeed.

I begin with this anecdote, not only for its profound beauty, but because it encapsulates a central tenet of what our movement offers its members. Habonim is a space where rambunctiousness is applauded, and dreaming is the norm. It is an environment where creativity and silliness can thrive alongside ideological discourse and spirited debate. Yet above all, Habonim is a place where chaverim[2] are afforded the safety to discover parts of themselves amongst the comradery of others. For many, it is home.

Over the years, I’ve come to ponder how an organization governed by youth manages to be both a place of structure and ideology, as well as a realm of mischief and unbridled play. As a chanich (young participant)[3], this rare phenomenon felt nothing short of magic – the ‘how’ never crossed my mind. For much of my Habonim journey, I perceived the movement to be an enigmatic force that lived, breathed, and grew beyond any individual member. I was unable to conceive of what brought this space to life.  My sole perception was that the movement was a source of pure euphoria – an addictive sensation only truly understood by those who have basked in Habonim’s sunshine. And once felt, it becomes clear why memories made in Habonim programs are cherished for a lifetime.

As I transitioned into madrich-hood (counsellor-hood)[4] and eventually took on Rosh (leader)[5] responsibilities, I came to understand that the question is not how, nor what, but who. Perhaps this is one of the most profound lessons of my Habonim journey – one I will concede at the outset – is that we are Habonim. The magic is created only when individuals choose to gather in community. Collectively, a constitution is crafted, a culture is set, and unbeknown to greater society, a new one is constructed.

While this topic could fill another Habonim-centric paper (and surely has, by many before me), my aim here is not to capture Habonim nostalgia. Nor is this an account of the lessons the movement has imparted to me throughout my Habonim career, although many are woven anecdotally throughout the lines that follow. No, what I seek to explore, and what is so rarely articulated by sentimental Habonim members, is the double-edged sword of such empowerment when placed into naïve hands.

While unparallel in its splendour, it would be misguided to imply that Habonim – we –have no downsides. Interwoven with the feelings of unity, excitement, ownership, and belonging (words which barely capture the essence of Habo[6] Magic), there lies a sinister undercurrent that tinges the experience. For many, myself included, the Habonim space can be taxing to navigate. It is riddled with complexity, bureaucracy, and hierarchy; standing in stark contrast to the ethos of inclusivity and acceptance it so proudly espouses.

I have spent the past decade embedded within the Habonim community – a time I have cherished for the safety and belonging it provided. Yet, in climbing its peaks, I have also, at times, slipped into its cracks. And for those new to this landscape, these dark crevices can be jarring. How is it that a space which offers such euphoric highs can be accompanied by deep and lonely stints?  How can one be surrounded by others, yet feel so utterly lost within the turbulent and sticky web of social dynamics?

It has taken a decade within this movement to begin unpicking the intricate social forces that shape Habonim when its members gather. What follows is, in part, a theory of the unspoken rules governing our microcosmic society; but more intimately, it is a reflective account of my own experience within this space. Above all, it is an honest portrayal of what it feels like to be part of our beloved Habonim Dror, in all its wonder and with all its flaws. I hope you are here for the ride.

1. The Chanich Social Experience

Contemporary Habonim leadership (and perhaps older alumni too) often speak of a ‘trickle-down effect’ when envisioning the execution of a machaneh (camp)[7]. The Roshim[8] create an ethos that they wish their tzevet (team)[9] to embody, who in turn infuse this culture into the interactions with their chanichim. And so, when kids who enter the campsite for the first time witness ‘adult-like’ figures engaged in rough and tumble, singing unashamedly and parading on tables, slowly but surely they follow suit. In doing so, they taste youthfulness and empowerment, and experience a sense of freedom that is too often withheld in the outside world. Habonim creates a space where individuals can embrace their childishness wholeheartedly while growing, learning, and gradually assuming responsibility under the watchful eye of other invested youth.

Against this backdrop, and as a point of departure, it is worth acknowledging that the chanich and madrich experience within Habonim are often regarded as incomparable. For one, madrichim carry the privilege and ownership of orchestrating the culture of a machaneh, which they hope will shape the channich experience. While aspirational in theory, however, this task is not so seamless in practice. One significant barrier rests, in part, in a second key distinction: chanichim primarily socialize within their predefined age cohorts. While of course there is the bridging of groups across schools, provinces and even countries; interactions beyond one’s shichvah (age cohort) remain rare. As a result, the social atmosphere – despite Habonim’s ideals – often mirrors the familiar dynamics of a typical schoolground.

Reflecting on my own chanich days, I can still recall the social stratifications that emerged within my shichvah, with tight-knit groups forming, cliques solidifying, and the inevitable friction that arose between them. These adolescent dynamics are in no ways peculiar; and try as we might to redefine social norms within the Habonim space, it must be accepted that deconstructing age-old social conventions takes more than 3 weeks (especially when the targets are teenage cliques!).

As a somewhat reclusive yet otherwise ordinary teenager, I remember the tension of navigating these tense social dynamics – both at school and on the campsite. I felt the sharpness of inter-group rivalries and the unease of facing those I perceived as different from myself. And yet, despite its social turbulence, the Habonim space quietly imparted a vital social skill: the ability to integrate new faces into pre-established circles and to resist the social pressure to exclude the unconventional.

The madrich social setting, in contrast, is shaped within a space where age delineations unravel. Instead, a cocktail of young adults spanning the ages of 18-24 (the same age range as shtilim (grade 5 and 6) to shomrim (grade 11)[10]) find themselves immersed in a unanimous quest: to deliver the extraordinary chanich experience we had once received. Upon entering the bogrim body (over-18 cohort)[11], I remember the mild surprise I felt upon realizing how much larger the Movement truly was, filled with hundreds of faces beyond those within my own shichvah. Thus, not only did this shift herald a new era of acquired responsibility; but involved the admission into an entirely novel social landscape governed by its own unspoken rules and dynamics. As I was about to realize, it was a landscape for which many are ill-prepared.

2. The Madrich Social Experience

I’ve often reminisced about the transition from chanich to madrich as carrying a particular sentimentality and significance. While it was tinged with a bittersweet grief at the realization that the blissful chanich chapter was drawing to a close, it also marked the beginning of a new era. For one, it offered permission to peek behind the curtain of Habonim’s magic show and to become part of the cast that brings this affair to life. But perhaps more than that, this leap – uncoincidentally situated at the end of one’s legal childhood – provided a rare platform to shed the parts of oneself constrained by a high-school identity. I remember the space feeling more open, playful, and alive with new connections as inter-shichvah collaboration grew and the adolescent-like hierarchies that flavoured the chanich experience were stripped away.

With reduced authority looming and the freedom to further deconstruct external social norms, a more vivid, raw, and authentic culture flourished – one that could never exist in the chanich space nor in broader society. The bogrim body became a playground where no gimmick was too outrageous and silliness was not only accepted but celebrated. This atmosphere of unchecked freedom felt quite extraordinary, as though I had been handed a new kind of liberation and confidence I had never known before. To my astonishment, being a madrich was leagues more fun than my chanich years (which – better believe it! – I thought impossible!).

Yet beneath this exhilarating freedom, a more subtle and unsettling social peculiarity began to emerge. It first revealed itself through 'inside' jokes, tossed casually between others, but sailing straight over my head without pause or explanation. Moments of easy camaraderie would suddenly pivot into conversations for which I had no context.

It permeated in other ways too – a feeling of subtle exclusion when I entered a group with whom I was unacquainted. It was not that I was unwelcome, but rather that I lacked the lexicon of their world. They spoke in a dialect of shared history, woven from names I did not know, games I had never played, memories formed in spaces I had never occupied. For all I knew, these experiences had taken shape on another continent (not just the Habonim campsite!) and few words were offered to bridge the gap. And so, the rift felt obtrusive.

This constant oscillation between belonging one moment and exclusion the next was not only disorienting (to put it mildly), but became a quiet social undercurrent that lay just beneath the surface of each extraordinary memory. Amid the laughter and chaos, there was a persistent, nagging sense of being on the outside. Of course, this feeling ran deeper than a linguistic exclusion. It was as though the space was not quite mine, and the home that I’d once known had been rattled. It was as though my sense of belonging was being tested, all the while navigating new exhilarating environments Sure, to be a madrich was to be unshackled from rigid adolescent cliques, but it also meant being lost without them. While the social pretence, and perhaps intent, was cohesiveness; the reality was often a feeling of isolation. I was always surrounded by people – my people – yet never quite able to shake the feeling that I was lingering on the periphery. Though unspoken, the subtle implication was that there was a select gravitational centre, and that each had to find their orbit. Some felt close; others distant; and at the time, I attributed my peripheral positionality to my own timidness within this vast new domain.

In retrospect, it seems inevitable that stepping into a novel culture comes with a sense of foreignness and exasperation. Perhaps this barrier is part and parcel of what makes the Habonim experience feel so unique: it belongs only to those within its bounds, and the deeper one ventures, the more at home they may feel. Perhaps the price one must pay to feel safe within Habonim’s walls is to endure a period of social acclimatization: to remain on the edges, to climb the contours slowly, until each earn their place – if they do at all.

At the time, however, I had no such perspective. My first year as a madrich was a wild, joyful, and unruly ride; punctuated by an ever-present insecurity that I was not ‘in’ and, more troublingly, did not quite know how to be.

Interlude:

I entered the bogrim body in 2019 and had one treasured, albeit complicated, year as a madrich before the Covid pandemic brought Habonim’s momentum to a halt. I remember grieving the cancellation of Machaneh 2020 and my furious shock when Machaneh 2021, too, was prised from our grasp just days before we were set to launch. By early 2022, I felt disconnected from Habonim, disheartened by what seemed like a movement vapid and deselect. I recall being hesitant to attend a mid-year seminar aimed at reigniting the bogrim body, still burdened by the legacy of Covid and wary of large gatherings - not because of the virus itself, but because of the unfamiliarity of being within another’s presence.

Yet, I have Habonim and its then leadership at the time to thank for aiding me in bringing Covid to an official end. For at that seminar, I indeed felt ignited. It was as though a haze had lifted, and I could step into the unmasked world as myself once again. I fell in love with Habonim with a depth that surpassed all prior feeling – I felt inspired, youthful, and ready to re-embrace life full force. Perhaps this is why, when a dear friend, whom I met at a Habonim machaneh in my early years as a chanich, asked me to be his S'gan Rosh (vice-head) for the Bonim (Grade 7) age group at Machaneh 2022, I accepted on the spot.

The years that followed became a masterclass in the trials and triumphs of youth leadership. I stepped into this position blind to the gravity of what it would demand of me. There was barely a thought spared for the careful navigation that lay just beyond the horizon: the all-nighters, the delicate task of mediating intergroup conflicts, the demanding role of being a source of structure, discipline, and guidance for a team of – let’s be honest – kids taking care of other kids. None of these facets occurred to me at the outset. No, what compelled me to take the leap was the sheer glee of knowing I would once again set foot in the Habonim campsite. That I would once again dance on tables, feel the warmth of true companionship, and sit beside an ever-burning fire as the early hours slipped away unnoticed. It was the prospect of returning ‘home’ that enticed me. But perhaps, more than anything, it was the opportunity to reclaim what had been lost in the wake of two years of Covid.

Those years were not just a return, but a reckoning that propelled me to new heights within my Habonim journey. And with each peak came a sharper awareness – not only of the movement’s boundless gifts but also of the pressing changes needed to make Habonim a more inclusive and uplifting space for those within it. As I was about to learn, however, the higher one climbs, the more drastic the fall.

It is here that I turn to perhaps the most pivotal lesson of my Habonim career: the art of shaping a space’s culture and what it truly means to do so.

3. The Shaping of a Culture

Though long behind me, the bitter residue of never quite belonging within the bogrim space still lingered, casting its shadow over my single experience as a madrich. And so, in one of our earliest meetings where my two co-roshim and I began shaping our vision for Bonim Machaneh 2022, the opportunity to leave an imprint felt unmistakable. The realization itself was a learning curve: never before had I considered that the essence of a space could be deliberately crafted before it had even come into being.

Emerging from the long trudge through lockdown, it was starkly apparent that both madrichim and chanichim were in desperate need of a space where spiritedness could thrive once more. A space to shed the weight of restriction, to break free from the remnants of Covid’s imposed stillness, and to rejoice in newfound liberation. We chose the word rambunctious – a single thread from which every facet of the experience would be woven, each moment infused with an untamed, boisterous energy. The prospect thrilled me. How long had it been since we could surrender to unbounded exuberance, unburdened by judgment or constraint. Yet beneath this lively, electric tone, there was a quieter, more persistent culture I longed to weave into the fabric of the Bonim Tzevet.

Drawing on my experiences as a first-year boger[12], I knew I wanted the Bonim Tzevet to be a space of safety and acceptance for each of its members. A refuge where everyone had a fair shot at becoming an integral component of the team and where each person felt welcomed to take the stage. And so, we set the foundation for a culture of social inclusivity.

Once again, this ideal felt aspirational. But how to bring it to life? In the weeks leading up to machaneh, my co-roshim and I devised pe’ulot (activities) for our tzevet designed to bridge divides before smaller subgroups had the chance to crystalize. We emphasized team-building and collaborative novelty, intent on crafting an experience where memories were built together and where none were left behind. We encouraged vulnerability, inviting each person to share parts of themselves with the group, ensuring that, one by one, everyone had their moment in the spotlight. We deliberately cultivated a space that celebrated differences, and where laughter, play, and the most unconventional expressions of oneself were met with full acceptance.

And to my amazement, it worked.

Harmony seemed to settle within the tzevet, and it appeared that each person found a space that felt like home. Yet despite the hours of planning, the countless details designed to set this culture in motion, I came to realize – in real time – that the true catalyst for its success lay in an act far simpler. I came to understand that as roshim, we owned the ability to embody the very qualities we sought to inspire. If we wanted our team to laugh, we had to laugh. If we wanted them to play, we had to show them how. If we wanted them to bond, we had to be bonded. And if we wanted them to be a safe space for others, we had to be a safe space for them.

In embodying these characteristics, they infused them into the space where they were absorbed by others, who then integrated them into their interactions with fellow tzevet members at first, and later, with their chanichim when they arrived in turn. Recall the trickle-down effect I spoke of? Well, here it was, taking shape in the flesh.

Yet, through this experience, a deeper, more intrinsic curiosity began to stir within me. On the one hand, I felt what could only be described as ‘ultimate empowerment’. To be a driving force behind the space we had cultivated, to witness it materialize before my eyes, awakened a confidence within me that had long been dormant. It was intoxicating and euphoric. And yet, on the other hand, the social strains I had associated with my bog 1 year had not evaporated. Still, there were instances where it seemed impossible for me to integrate within my own tzevet as well as the greater Movement. What a strange paradox it was, unfolding before me once again.

If I were to be completely transparent, I’d have to admit that these feelings were most acute in moments when I felt my grip on the Bonim tzevet beginning to slip. As extraordinary as this month was, it was also one of the most challenging I have ever faced – relentless in its demands, a constant exercise in navigation and problem-solving. Though my team and I approached each hurdle with enthusiasm and grace, the weight of it all – compounded by too many sleepless nights – at times became overwhelming. Often, the Roshim had to step away, leaving a culture to take shape in our absence. And upon our return, I was left with the sense that the social atmosphere had morphed into something of a puzzle, with the suspicion that I did not quite fit.

There were moments when I could feel our influence waning, perhaps a reflection of our own exhaustion, leading us to falter – missteps that, in turn, rippled through the tzevet. It was in these moments, in particular, that I felt the social space grow tense, the once-cohesive group beginning to fracture at its edges. Perhaps most pressingly, I was left to wonder: if I was questioning my own sense of belonging, how were those under my guidance experiencing the space in their own right?

However, in the whirlwind of responsibility and the exhilaration of the role, it was a feeling I could set aside. After all, it no longer loomed as large as it once had. Though I never paused to scrutinize these emotions too deeply, I can still recall moments where, even with this newfound confidence, I felt the quiet sting of social strain. And yet, despite this, I will always regard Habonim Machaneh 2022 as one of the most pivotal and growth-defining experiences of my leadership journey to date.

4. A Change in Tune

I stepped into Machaneh 2023 not as a Rosh, but once again as an on-the-ground madrich. In many ways, my role mirrored that of my bog 1 year, however a universe of experience stood between my then- and now-self. With this change in status, I entered the machaneh knowing I had to strike a delicate balance. I now understood the immense effort required to drive a machaneh forward and, by extension, the profound influence a Rosh holds in shaping the space. Moreover, I had the experience to recognise how each person’s presence could help define the culture of the tzevet, and I had firsthand knowledge of how to cultivate that dynamic myself. However, I also knew that I was now working under a new set of Roshim, and understood the importance of respecting their leadership. So, I stepped into the space aware that many of the approaches I once believed best for running a machaneh might need to be set aside so as to make room for a new culture, rhythm, and way of doing things that was not my own.

While this change was an internal navigation in its own right, what truly struck me most about re-entering the Habonim space with less authority and responsibility than before was just how pronounced, and once again, difficult, the social dynamics felt. I could see hierarchies forming within the larger bogrim body and its subgroups, and yet again, I struggled to find a stable place within them. What made this particularly perplexing was that the personal shortcomings I had once attributed to this feeling no longer seemed to apply.

For one, I was now an older member of the movement, carrying a greater confidence and assuredness than in previous years. What’s more, I had learned the unspoken dialect of the bogrim space: inside jokes, the organisational structures, and the cultural shorthand that had once eluded me. The reasons I had previously attributed to my sense of detachment no longer held, and yet the feeling remained as acute as ever.

However, what was different this time around was that I had developed a newfound reflexivity and ability to perceive these dynamics with greater clarity. I was perplexed by what I was experiencing. On the one hand, I knew these dynamics were not immutable (having had the previous year to shape, deconstruct, and redirect them), and yet, they now constrained me once again! Was this my own anxiety at work? Was it a manifestation of an insecurity associated with needing to surrender a once-held power and prowess within the movement? Had the authority of being a Rosh afforded me a respect and social flexibility that shielded me from these dynamics altogether?

Whatever the reason, one thing was certain: my perception of the social space had shifted, and I now had the tools to begin understanding the social undercurrents at play. The year before, I had felt almost liberated from these tensions, and now I found myself in their midst once again. Where I had once framed my struggles as an internal failing, I now began to wonder if they were symptoms of something larger – something embedded within the institutional structure of Habonim as a micro-society

With this background in mind and perhaps simply out of my own restless curiosity, I became an undercover detective, set to solve a conceptual mystery. I started by stepping beyond my own experience and exploring the space through the eyes of others still finding their footing within it. I started speaking to others about how they experienced the space, spanning from new bog 1s to well-established members. And when I spoke to them, what they described startled me—though, in hindsight, perhaps it shouldn’t have.

Many of the people I spoke to, bog 1s and others alike, found the social space profoundly taxing. Many were struggling to integrate into the bogrim body, as though they were receiving an unspoken message that they did not quite belong. They were having a good time, sure, but there was something about the space that felt amiss.

And then I had an experience – profound yet deeply humorous – that pieced things together. 

5. To Play the Game

It would be misguided to overlook the raucousness and mischief that also define life on the campsite – moments of revelry that loom large in many of our memories of Habonim. Let me illustrate with an instance that has always stood out to me, not only for the laughter it inspired but because it became a key piece of evidence in the development of my theory.

It is an unspoken cultural given that several nights a week during machaneh, the bogrim body will gather, delighting in conversation and laughter around the fire. Sometimes, these nights are punctuated by madrich-wide games, one of which goes like this: An ‘eligible bachelor(ette)’ is chosen by the event orchestrator, who then turns their back to the rest of the madrichim standing behind them. The host proceeds to ask the bachelor a series of questions about their ideal partner. ‘Do you prefer blondes or brunettes?’ the host prompts, consulting the bachelor before announcing that everyone who does not have brown hair must take a seat. Round by round, the pool is whittled down until, at last, the perfect match is found.

On one particular night – during what had already been a socially fraught machaneh – I happened to be the lucky candidate who won the favour of the eligible bachelor. I stood facing him, his back to me, as the host finally declared, ‘You may now turn around and meet your darling!’ Without a moment’s hesitation, and without even knowing whom he was turning to, the bachelor spun around and kissed me in front of the entire bogrim body, who erupted in gleeful applause.

I remember my own dismay at his boldness, coupled with a flurry of realizations and accompanying questions. To start, he and I were strangers at the time, and it was immediately clear to me, both in his swiftness and ease, that it did not matter whom he turned around to. His gimmick would have played out the same way regardless. His goal was to amuse, and that, he certainly achieved

But perhaps more peculiar was my own internal reaction and the way I processed it. I remember realizing, in that instant, that although this was technically a violation of my personal boundaries (and of the very principles of consent that we as a movement so firmly preach), I did not mind in the slightest. In fact, I recall thinking that he was lucky it was he who had pulled this stunt and not someone else around the fire that night.

This, of course, raised a central question: why? Why was it that this particular individual could get away with a gesture that left me genuinely bemused, while I knew full well that had it been nearly anyone else, I would have been deeply unsettled, perhaps even angry? And to be clear, there was never any undercurrent of desire between us that might have framed the encounter differently. Instead, it led me to consider his specific positionality within the movement. He was new to Habonim – this was his first machaneh – and while he wasn’t fresh out of high school, he was still a few years younger than me and a junior boger.

Moreover, he seemed entirely unconstrained by the social peculiarities of the space, moving fluidly between groups with a kind of elegance, grace, and ease that I had rarely seen others achieve. Perhaps part of what enabled this was his inherent charisma, sociability, and his unique ability to make everyone he encountered feel accepted and welcome. These qualities no doubt bolstered his popularity within the bogrim body, despite his newcomer status. In retrospect, I suspect this is precisely why he was chosen as the bachelor in the first place.

Leading up to this event, I had begun to wonder whether a certain kind of power allowed individuals to evade the rigid social constraints that governed so many within the space. While I suspected that being a Rosh granted one this privilege, it became clear that this ease was not exclusive to Roshim. More importantly, certain personalities seemed to wield far greater influence over the space as a whole. It was they who dictated the tone around the fire, who steered the conversation, who were always surrounded by others who adhered to their opinions and ideas without question.

It was they who set the culture.

In that moment, I realized that my discomfort in the space stemmed from the way my attempts to insert myself into a group were – often subtly but unmistakably – overshadowed by a larger, more dominant personality, leaving me feeling small. And when this happened three, four, five times – when almost every effort to contribute to a conversation was met with indifference or dismissal – it created a profound sense of not belonging. What struck me even more was that this experience was not unique to me; it was a common thread among many in the Movement, even if they had not yet found the words to articulate it.

And, of course, this feeling of exclusion extended far beyond casual social interactions – it was woven into the very fabric of Habonim itself. Some types of people were effortlessly valued and welcomed, while others had to prove they belonged. It seemed my earlier suspicion had been misplaced. It was not that being a Rosh granted people this power, but rather that people were often chosen as Rosh precisely because they already possessed it. Stated plainly, it sounds obvious.

Still, it became clear that some people seemed to embody a quality that naturally positioned them at the social center, affording them an institutional power. And I knew firsthand – having once experienced it myself – that this made the space far easier to navigate and enjoy. Meanwhile, others found Habonim so exclusionary that they disengaged from it altogether.

The next questions that arose for me, however, did not have such clear answers. What, exactly, grants some people greater social prowess than others? Is it a kind of social dominance? A certain aesthetic? Confidence? A certain sense of humour? What makes someone a ‘Habonim person’?

This problem of acceptance, of course, is not unique to Habonim – I imagine it is mirrored in almost all broader societal institutions and organizations. But perhaps experiencing it in an intimate setting allowed me to identify and, in a way, study the phenomenon more closely, precisely because I had lived it myself.

Regardless of its universality, it is deeply unfortunate that this is a reality of the Habonim space. While some thrive, finding refuge, safety, and freedom within the movement, others feel so out of place and ostracized that they withdraw entirely, concluding that the space simply is not for them.

I have attempted to articulate this experience from a perspective that acknowledges both ends of the spectrum while remaining, I believe, fairly moderate. There were times when I questioned whether Habonim was truly an accepting space for me—moments that left me feeling tense, uneasy, and uncomfortable. Yet, my overall experience has been overwhelmingly positive.

Ultimately, I write this paper to advocate for those who have felt so dismissed and dejected within the space that they choose to leave – not because they reject Habonim’s ideals or fail to see the movement’s value, but because they were never able to find a space where they could integrate and fully enjoy its fruit. Instead, they felt pressured, undervalued, and unwelcome. And this, I believe, is a profound issue within Habonim – one that stands in direct contradiction to the very principles we claim to uphold as a movement.

6. Where To From Here?

At its heart, this narrative seeks to uncover the spaces where change can occur and how it can be realized. As I’ve illustrated, Habonim’s structure offers a unique opportunity to dismantle the societal boundaries that typically govern us, enabling us to redefine how we function as a Movement. My experience as a Rosh in 2022 taught me this lesson in a very personal way. But what I’ve come to appreciate since is that it’s not only Roshim who shape the culture. Each individual contributes to it, their presence and influence becoming integral to the collective environment. This dynamic, though rare, holds immense power. In a space that challenges and redefines societal expectations, we also have the chance to create a culture where inclusivity isn’t just a lofty ideal but a tangible, lived experience—if only we know how to bring it to life.

And therein lies the central question: how do we build a space where inclusivity is not just a concept but a practice, woven into the fabric of everyday interactions? Throughout this paper, I’ve described the space as though its exclusivity were upheld by a distant, unidentifiable group of ‘others.’ It was ‘they’ who made me feel unwelcome, I thought. But who exactly are ‘they’? From the outset, I’ve emphasized that Habonim is ‘we,’ not a separate entity but a reflection of every individual within it. I, too, am part of that ‘we.’ And with that realization came a difficult reckoning: have I, consciously or unconsciously, ever been the one to make someone else feel unwelcome?

Indeed, there were moments as a Rosh when I had the power to lift others up, when the space felt rich with possibility and shared connection. But there were also times, feeling small myself, when I propped myself up by unintentionally diminishing others. In those moments, I confronted an undeniable truth: it wasn’t about them. The tension in the social dynamics wasn’t the result of ill-willed individuals. On the contrary, every person, on a personal level, was warm, familiar, and wonderful to be around. The true challenge was that we were all grappling with the social space in our own ways, each person doing their best to navigate and cope with the resources and strategies they had at their disposal.

In 2024, I was honoured to be elected as Rosh Shomrim. I entered this role with a distinctive perspective, fully aware that it would be my final machaneh and determined to leave behind a meaningful legacy. Through the lessons I had learned over the course of my Habonim journey, I understood what it would take to build a more inclusive and welcoming space. And once again, that work began within the Shomrim tzevet.

At its essence, my goal was to foster a heightened awareness of the way each individual shaped the space around them, urging them to be both intentional and deliberate in their interactions. I wanted every person to unlock a profound sense of self-awareness—one that recognized their own vulnerability and inherent desire for connection—and to use that as a compass for how they made others feel. Above all, I wanted them to understand that they held the power to craft the experiences they hoped to have.

Naturally, this is easier said than done. But with enough intentional effort, I believe that more members of Habonim will discover the refuge they seek within the movement. Because when given the right platform, Habonim does not just offer experiences—it has the power to change lives.

by Ella Mendelow

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[1] Directly translates to ‘friend’.

[2] Plural of ‘chaver’

[3] Member under the age of 18 who attends Habonim programs

[4] Member over the age of 18 who leads and facilitates Habonim programs

[5] Directly translates to ‘head’.

[6] Abbreviation of Habonim, often used colloquially among its members

[7] In Habonim South Africa, the main event of the year is a month-long camp, historically hosting over 2,000 members. Its success requires months of careful planning.

[8] Plural of ‘Rosh’ (head)

[9] Madrichim (counsellors) in Machaneh (camp) are allocated a tzevet (team) for a particular channich (young participant) age cohort

[10] Each school-age cohort is assigned a name, making it easy to identify the group.

[11] Once members turn 18, age distinctions are no longer made. The entire group is referred to as "Bogrim," with years of experience as a madrich indicated by abbreviations such as "Bog 1," "Bog 2," and so on.

[12] Person belonging to Bogrim Body