Shavuot in 1948: Harvesting the first fruits of Israeli statehood under siege

On the evening of June 12, 1948, white tablecloths were laid out on folding tables in a state barely one month old. Dairy dishes were served without cheese, baskets of fruit were carried by barefoot children as Hagana soldiers stood with rifles just behind them. It was Shavuot in the newly declared State of Israel, and the country was at war.

What should have been a time of thanksgiving, of harvest, and ancient ritual took place under bombardment. But for thousands of Jews across the land, from besieged Jerusalem to front line kibbutzim near Syria and Jordan, Shavuot 1948 was a festival like none other in the history of the state.

Just 30 days earlier, David Ben-Gurion had declared independence in Tel Aviv. The ink on Israel’s birth certificate had barely dried before five Arab armies invaded. Jewish Jerusalem was starving. The Negev was under siege. Galilean villages were exchanging mortar fire. And the Israel Defense Forces did not yet officially exist. But when Shavuot came, so did the people. Gathering on lawns, in bunkers, in makeshift dining halls, and among the ruins to celebrate, they came not despite the war but because of it.

“It felt impossible to abandon this holiday,” wrote the cultural committee of Kibbutz Ein Harod in a letter to their conscripts. “It is so deeply woven into our lives.”

Ein Harod: Between grain and gunfire

After some deliberation, they decided it must. The directive was issued across the kibbutz: Every branch would contribute – the schoolteachers, bakers, kitchen staff, and farmers. All would join in a stubborn and vigilant effort to mark the festival as they always had. Preparations began immediately.

The dining hall was transformed. White cloths were stretched over tables. Handmade floral arrangements sat beside bowls of olives, jugs of wine, and modest plates of vegetables – all grown onsite. Children rehearsed songs. Young women wove garlands from branches. In a year when nearly everything had been improvised, so too was the joy.

At 7 p.m., the celebration began. The Palm Lawn, a green oasis ringed with trees and guarded by lookouts, became the setting. Attendees wore their best white garments, the traditional color of purity and renewal. Soldiers in khaki mingled among them, weapons slung across their shoulders. Many were fresh from combat, their uniforms streaked with dust and sweat.

Two small stages, each shaped like a Star of David and wrapped in greenery, were set up for the ceremonial presentation of the first fruits. At the center stood a tall pillar marked “Jewish National Fund.” Flags flanked the platform. A torn banner fluttered beside them – a symbol of the lives lost in the fight for independence.

Ze’ev Dorsini, one of the senior members of the community, opened the proceedings with a speech that was both tribute and call to perseverance.

“The heroic stand of our sons and comrades on the front has allowed us to continue our creative labor. We have finished the blessed harvest; this week, we begin the grape harvest, with confidence that gunfire from Mount Gilboa will no longer threaten our workers.”

Dorsini paused before naming four Arab villages – Zir’in, Nuris, Mazar, and Faku’a – that had been captured after intense battles.

“Let us remember: Our comrades in the orchards never ceased their work at the mountain’s foothills, despite constant gunfire. Today, on our holiday, the fruits of our labor lie before us... in all the rainbow’s colors, displayed under the skies of our beloved homeland, surrounded by our celebrating community and our radiant, joyous children.”

He then honored the 150 kibbutz members still at the front, sending them blessings “in the name of all.”

“Be strong, dear sons! It is worth suffering, worth fighting, worth giving our lives for this magnificent, wondrous creation.”

The crowd rose in silence to honor the fallen: Yerubaal, Rafi, and Moshe. Three names etched in community memory forever.

‘We danced the hora at dawn’

The mood was as heavy as it was proud. Parents clapped. Soldiers smiled but kept their eyes scanning the hills.

At Kibbutz Beit Alfa, near the Syrian border, Hagana fighter Moshe Erem wrote in his diary:

“After night patrol, we danced the hora at dawn. The Syrians shelled the valley, but we danced anyway – this is our answer.”

Music was played on a wind-up gramophone. Some danced barefoot in the dirt. Others, just back from patrol, leaned against fences and watched.

On top of the acts of Jewish tradition, these became defiant acts of identity. Affirmations that life in the Holy Land, even fragile, would go on.

Jerusalem: Mallow and miracles

On April 20, the last major convoy had entered the city. It would be weeks before another broke through. Rations were brutal. Bread: 200 grams per day. Cheese: nonexistent. Water: two gallons per person, most of it for cooking. On May 12, rationing reached its peak.

Shavuot approached like a question mark. Would people even live to see it?

Golda Meir, in a letter to supporters in America, wrote:

“We had no milk or cheese, but we read the Book of Ruth, a story of loyalty, like our soldiers’.”

For Jerusalemites, Ruth’s story, of clinging to a people, a land, and a destiny, had never felt more immediate. The city was starving, bombarded, and politically isolated. 

Then, on June 11, just one day before the holiday, a miracle occurred.

“A small convoy of jeeps bearing blessed arms, ammunition, and food came via the hills,” wrote young Jerusalemite Zippy Porath in her diary. “They’ve broken the siege and lifted our morale sky high.”

The convoy had taken a secret new road through the mountains, bypassing the deadly Latrun corridor. Built in desperation by Jewish laborers, engineers, and mule teams, this rugged path would soon be dubbed the Burma Road. It saved Jerusalem.

“Last night was just about the limit,” Zippy added. “The Arabs must have used every goddamn shell they had before the ceasefire.”

Indeed, the guns fell silent that day. A 30-day truce was declared. In Jerusalem, it began not with parades but with quiet. No shelling. No gunfire. Just the breath of a people exhaling for the first time in months.

On June 12 and 13, the Book of Ruth was read in every synagogue that still stood. People huddled together, wrapped in coats against the chill, clutching scraps of matzah and hope.

“Because of the rising cost of flour, the price of bread has been increased to 70 mils in Jerusalem and 68 mils in Israel,” that Friday’s Palestine Post ran on its front page. “Two rations of bread, one ration of 150 grammes of matzoth will be distributed in Jerusalem today to extend over the Shavuot holiday. The price of the matzoth will be 24 mils, and Sunday’s ration coupon will be collected.

“Because of the interruption in electricity yesterday, bread may not be distributed until late today. Shopkeepers have been instructed to remain open until the ration is distributed.”

Kol Hamagen radio broadcast instructions for cooking mallow. When Jordanian radio intercepted the message, they celebrated. “The Jews are eating donkey food,” one commentator mocked. “Soon they will surrender.”

But the Jews didn’t surrender. They made do. They marked the harvest with green leaves, Psalms, and the words of Ruth.

“Jerusalem’s streets over the week-end were thronged by thousands of persons who, for the first time in a month, trolled leisurely about, ‘inspecting’ the damage done by the savage shelling of the Holy City. Shops, cafes, and other public places were closed yesterday because of the Shavuot holiday, and most persons spent their free time enjoying the spring weather in parks and visiting friends whom they had no seen in many days.”– The Palestine Post, Monday, June 14, 1948

‘The first fruits of independence’

Posters from the Jewish National Fund showed young boys in white tunics beside soldiers with rifles. “Bring the First Fruits — and Bullets for the Front!” read one. Zionist propaganda blended the themes of agriculture and resistance. The land was both cradle and crucible.

In Tel Aviv, public ceremonies were modest. Soldiers were given short leave, especially from agricultural units. An IDF order explicitly authorized it “To maintain morale.” On the outskirts, children practiced for parades that had been canceled. Some marched anyway, led by teenagers, with baskets containing one tomato or a single egg.

Photographs from the Zionist Archives show these makeshift celebrations: girls in wreaths dancing between sandbags; families gathered beside abandoned British pillboxes; old men crying during the singing of “Hatikvah.”

And always, flags. Torn, faded, but raised.

Shavuot 1948 marked something more than an ancient ritual. It was a moment of spiritual resistance and national cohesion.

David Ben-Gurion, in his diary for June 11, wrote simply: “Shavuot. The Cabinet met. We must ensure that the people celebrate, even as war rages.”

Yitzhak Tabenkin, one of the ideological fathers of the kibbutz movement, was more poetic:

“For two thousand years, we spilled blood without purpose. Now, our struggle has meaning... Every settler is a combatant. We yearned to build without war, but if this is our fate, we accept it. Only through this price will we earn independence.”

Everything was rationed. Everything mattered. And still, there was enough for a holiday meal. Enough for songs and enough for hope.

The image of children bearing fruit under rifle guard came to define Shavuot 1948. 

It was the collision of Israel’s past with its present and future. The offerings may have been meager. The dairy dishes improvised. But the spirit was resolute.

There was no illusion. The war was far from over. In fact, most knew that the lull of the ceasefire would soon give way to greater violence. But Shavuot 1948 was a moment to breathe, to honor the fallen, and to affirm life.

Even the cows, one kibbutz diary noted, were fed a ration that included poultry manure – a reflection of wartime improvisation. The silos had emptied. Yet somehow, they found enough for a feast.

And in a kibbutz field under a canopy of palm fronds, as the children sang and the old men wept quietly for their sons, a torn flag flapped beside the stage. Beneath it, someone had scrawled in chalk:

“The Land has given its first fruits.” ■