A Trip Back To Where it all Began

It seems like months ago, but it has only been a few weeks since my family and I took a trip back to where it all began – to the mouth of the Gaza Strip, where Hamas and its minions blinded the much-vaunted electronic lookout devices, brought down the protective fences went on a rape and murder spree on October 7, 2023.

It only takes a couple of hours to drive from Netanya to Sderot if the roads aren’t clogged with the usual traffic.  We broke up the trip by stopping at the beach in Ashkelon, which is about 12 miles from Sderot. It was late afternoon.  The dads, the moms, the kids, the Moroccan Israelis, the Russian Israelis, the Arab Israelis, all parked on the sand or running in and out of the surf.  Peaceful scene, a little noisy, a little messy, a little crowded, the dogs running around and being called back by their owners, the gray and black crows looking for opportunities to steal chips and scraps, the sun setting.  Nice.

We later heard that if things had gone according to Hamas plans on October 7^th, their attack would have advanced from Sderot and the small kibbutzim and moshavim surrounding the area up the coast to Ashkelon, Ashdod, and then Tel Aviv.  Hezbollah was expected to attack from the north, targeting Haifa and then coming down the coast in a pincer move.

We had decided to travel from our home base in Netanya to a tiny moshav a short drive from Sderot’s train station, where we would meet our guide the next morning.  We stayed in a place that one of the families had turned into an Air BnB.  They were very welcoming on our arrival, and curious about what had brought us.  It was obvious that not many people have been coming to stay in the spotless little guest house they built on their property in pre October 7^th days, hoping to attract hikers and other transit tourists.

Though the place was quiet, it was a rough night.  The guardrails come down at night.  Since the 2023 attack, my poor husband has had to deal with me periodically cursing in my sleep as I “fight” (or flee) through tunnels.  This night, I found myself walking down a hot, dusty road lined on both sides with crucified Jews.  So much for sleep…. When I finally gave up and got dressed, I found my daughter on a couch in the living room.  She’d had a nightmare that her father was dragged off to Gaza.  We both figured we were blowing off emotional steam in preparation for what we were going to see and hear this day.  Okay, enough of that.  Coffee time.

I went up the central path to the moshav’s grocery to see about getting my crew some breakfast.  “Do you have any apples….?”  “No, not since the war started.” “I understand.”  What more could I possibly say? There are lots of apples in Tel Aviv, in Netanya.  Hell, even in Ashkelon.  But this is a little, out of the way place, for almost two years, these people have been living right up against it. Never mind the apples.

Off to Sderot to pick up our guide.  The “AI Overview” on Sderot says:  “The population of Sderot is approximately 33,002. This figure is based on the 2022 census data. Sderot is a city in southern Israel, located less than a mile from the Gaza Strip, and is known for being frequently targeted by rocket attacks from Gaza.”  That reputation was years in the making.  Hamas came to power in the Gaza Strip after Israel pulled its army and settlements out and the Bush administration pushed for elections.  In 2007, Hamas cadres threw their rivals from Fatah (aka the Palestinian Authority) off roofs, shot them, or otherwise got them out of the way, and Hamas has ruled ever since.  Shelling into Israel had started back in 2001. From 2007 on, Hamas, with help from Islamic Jihad and others, greatly increased the pace – 3,000 rockets were lobbed at Israel in 2008, most at the nearest town – Sderot.  There are shelters everywhere, many – especially the ones in playgrounds — brightly painted, presumably to help keep kids who have only a few seconds to run into them from getting too scared.

We stop at the lookout.  This is a hill from which you can see the northern Gaza Strip just about a mile away.  Yes, one mile.  Without being on site, it is hard to get a sense of scale.  The Strip is right next to the towns and little settlements that were attacked.  The whole of Israel, and certainly the whole “Gaza envelope” area, is much smaller than people reading about the conflict in Europe or the U.S. likely think.  Smoke is rising from one point in the Strip as we watch – our guide informs us that the IDF is actively destroying Hamas targets today.  Seeing how small the area is, I find myself wondering why the IDF did not send in planes to bomb Hamas sites on the day of the bloody attack.  Maybe it was because of news that hostages were being dragged into the Strip. The confusion and paralysis that set in at the top of Israel’s defense and political establishment that day has yet to be explored through a state commission of inquiry.  When this is all over, that is absolutely going to have to happen, no fail.

We next went to see a short documentary put together to commemorate the battle for Sderot.  Hamas pulled into town in white Toyota trucks, armed to the teeth, and started shooting anyone in sight.  They surrounded the police station and killed several officers inside immediately.  Other Sderot police and security personnel saw the masked and heavily armed gunmen piling out of their trucks on street cameras and raced to the scene.

I want to repeat that —  they raced to the scene, straight into the teeth of danger, to try to save their colleagues and their town.  I see that spirit again when I see films of the first planes of Israelis returning to their country now, almost two years out, with Operation Rising Lion only a few days in progress – the jet is going to land, a steward is dancing in the aisle wrapped in an Israeli flag, the people are clapping.  Israeli doctors come back to help care for those wounded by the repeated Iranian missile attacks that send us all running to shelters and to help hold our strained healthcare system together.

Back to Sderot, October 7, 2023.  Hamas is in the police station, firing at people who have surrounded it to defend the town. One of our officers has his spine split by a bullet.  One has his knee shot off.  They kept fighting.  A Hamas sniper on the roof of the police station is pinning everyone down. The sniper is finally taken out by man who steals a long gun and runs to a nearby apartment building so he can target the shooter from an upstairs bedroom window.  Now he is depicted as an angel with a bow and arrow in a mural across the street from what was the Sderot police station. It was demolished by an IDF tank once police officers trapped on the roof were  rescued by Yamam special forces.  The only people left alive in the structure at that point were twenty-six terrorists, and the decision to destroy it was taken.  Now it is the site of a memorial, with eighteen columns rising to the sky, surrounded by greenery.  The number eighteen and growing plants to symbolize life, of course.

We go to the site of the Nova massacre.  A field of pictures and ceramic poppies awaits.  Each picture is written by family and friends of the young people killed that day or soon after they were dragged off to Gaza.  There is a general message here. This is not about numbers.  This is about individual lives cut short.  People, each with promise, each with hope, each with a story.  Many visitors cry as one or the other of these individual stories strikes home.  My daughter mourns in front of a photo of the beautiful Shani Louk, who was twenty-two when she was killed and her body dragged to Gaza ad paraded around for the people to spit on.  Later, the IDF succeeded in recovering her and she has been buried by her parents.  Here in this field, as in Sderot, we see groups of what look to be young IDF recruits or possibly high school seniors, listening to the stories, getting a sense of why they are going to be asked to step up and help. No question that they are much needed.

We stop at the shelter where Hersh Goldberg-Polin and his friend Aner Shapira along with some thirty other young people trying to flee the Nova killing field wound up.  Hamas men surrounded the structure, lobbing in one grenade after another.  Aner Shapira, closest to the entrance, managed to throw the first few out.  Then one detonated before he could return it, killing him and wounding Hersh, who was then dragged back to Gaza as a hostage and murdered by Hamas months later.  The shelter is relatively small – not intended for thirty. And it was built to protect from falling rockets – it has no door to close.

We arrive at a huge lot filled with cars, most of them twisted, burned, clearly shot up, or all three.  These had been pulled off the “Road of Death” where they piled up during the Hamas attack.  The Hatzalah team has worked to assure that the blood or body parts of victims who were killed in these vehicles were carefully removed to be buried with the dead.  Even here, wherever possible, there are stickers on the torched cars telling stories of who was in them and what happened.  Even here, we defy being just numbers.  We have names and stories.

On our way back to Sderot to drop our guide at the station before heading home ourselves, we stop at a volunteer-run rest stop for the soldiers serving in Gaza at Shuva Junction.  It has been open since shortly after October 7^th, and is running strong.  Volunteers are cooking food, providing water, taking donations of things people bring that they think might help the troops – toothbrushes, blankets, spare clothes, shavers.  These too are provided to any soldier in need for free. The site is kept running with donations. There is a set of benches under a wooden awning where troops can eat, and there they are.  It strikes me how very, very tired they look.  Especially the reservists – the forty-something year olds.  These dads and moms are still in action, carrying the fight on their backs along with the weight of their families, their jobs.  They may be tired, but they keep showing up.  So do the volunteers.

On the ride back, my son-in-law draws a contrast between what we saw on this trip and his visit to Auschwitz.  As he put it, at Auschwitz, death hangs in the air.  In the Gaza envelope, the memorials, the surroundings, the green fields, the open air, all point to the will to return to life. I think that pretty well sums up what this fight is about. The will to affirm and continue life when others are trying mightily to snuff it out.  I also hope anyone reading this who hasn’t visited yet will visit soon.