Habima Theatre

Start with the ground under your feet. The plaza here is smooth, pale stone, and on a warm evening it holds the heat of the day. You may hear skateboard wheels, the rattle of bicycle bells, and the low hum of people waiting for a show. Ahead of you rises a broad, cream-coloured building with a deep colonnade. This is Habima, the national theatre of Israel. Its story did not begin in this city, or even in this part of the world.

The name Habima is simply the Hebrew word for 'the stage'. That plain name hides an unusual beginning. The company was born in Moscow, in 1917, in the same year as the Russian Revolution. A group of young Jewish actors decided to perform serious theatre in Hebrew. At that time, Hebrew was mainly a language of prayer and scholarship. Very few people spoke it in daily life. To act in it was a bold, almost strange idea.

The driving force behind the company was Nahum Zemach, a passionate organiser with a clear dream. He wanted a Hebrew theatre with the same artistic standards as the best European stages. The young troupe found support from Konstantin Stanislavski, the famous Russian director whose ideas about realistic acting shaped theatre around the world. Through his circle, the actors trained with discipline and intensity. They were learning their craft, and in a way, they were also helping to bring a language back to life.

Here is the first surprise. Habima's most celebrated early production was directed by Yevgeny Vakhtangov, a brilliant Armenian-Russian director and a student of Stanislavski. The play was The Dybbuk, a dark folk drama about a young woman possessed by the restless spirit of her lost love. Vakhtangov staged it in 1922 with stylised movement, haunting music, and masklike makeup. Audiences who did not understand a word of Hebrew still came away shaken. The production became the company's signature for decades.

At the heart of that production stood Hanna Rovina, who played the possessed bride, Leah. Her deep voice and stillness made a powerful impression. In later years she became known as the first lady of Hebrew theatre. Many people who never saw her on stage still knew her name. If you look around the area of the plaza and the building, you may find references to the company's founding generation. Rovina is one of the figures most often remembered.

Life in the young Soviet Union grew difficult for a Hebrew theatre. In 1926, the company left on a tour abroad, and it never returned to Moscow. The actors performed across Europe and in the United States. Some members stayed behind in America, and the group split. The core of the company, however, kept its eyes on the Land of Israel, then under British rule. Over the following years, the actors made their way to Tel Aviv and settled here.

Think about what that meant. A theatre company carried a language, a repertoire, and a way of acting across continents. It arrived in a small, fast-growing city of white buildings and sandy streets. Tel Aviv was itself very young. Habima needed a permanent home, and the city gave it this site at the head of Rothschild Boulevard. Work on the building began in the 1930s, and construction stretched over years of hardship, including the Second World War.

The original design came from Oskar Kaufmann, a respected theatre architect who had worked in Berlin. The building opened in the mid-1940s, shortly before the founding of the State of Israel. In 1958, the government officially recognised Habima as the national theatre. That title carried weight. It meant that this stage was expected to speak for a whole society, with all its arguments, memories, and hopes. The repertoire grew to include classics, new Israeli plays, and translated works from around the world.

Now look closely at the building in front of you. What you see today is not exactly what Kaufmann built. The theatre went through a long and complicated renovation led by the Israeli architect Ram Karmi. It reopened in 2012. The project added space, modernised the halls, and gave the exterior its current strong, layered form. Not everyone loved the result. Some critics felt the changes moved too far from the original. Debates like this are part of how a city treats its landmarks.

Here is the second surprise. The open plaza around you is also a work of art. Habima Square was redesigned by Dani Karavan, one of Israel's best known sculptors of public space. Instead of placing a single statue here, he shaped the whole ground. Look for the sunken garden, a lowered area planted with greenery, where people sit away from the traffic. The design invites you to slow down. Notice how the levels change and how the paths guide your steps.

The theatre does not stand alone. Around this square, you will find other cultural buildings that together form a small arts district. The large concert hall nearby is home to the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra, and a modest contemporary art pavilion also sits close by. In the evenings, this mix of buildings fills with audiences, students, and dog walkers. It is one of the places where Tel Aviv's cultural life and its everyday street life meet in the open air.

Inside, Habima has several halls of different sizes. A visit to a performance is the best way to understand the place. Most shows are in Hebrew, of course. On some evenings, the theatre offers translation or subtitles for visitors. It is worth checking in advance which performances include them. Even without understanding every line, many visitors find that the voices, the movement, and the reactions of the audience say a great deal about the city and its people.

Before you leave, stand still for a moment near the colonnade. Look down Rothschild Boulevard, with its line of shady trees and its benches. Then look back at the building. A group of young actors once chose to perform in a language that few people spoke. Today, families, couples, and students walk past this stage, speaking that language without a second thought. As you move on, listen to the voices around you. That everyday sound is part of Habima's story too.