I Sit Here at Home on the Border

I sit here at home — in the place that, two years ago, was overrun by terrorists. The place where we almost died. The moment when each breath could have been our last.

Tonight, a program flickers on my screen, replaying the horrors of October 7th in full sound and color. I know I shouldn’t be watching — it drags me back into that day — but I can’t look away. I’ll pay for it in my sleep, when the images return in my nightmares.

Still, we were among the lucky ones. I am home again. So many of my loved ones are still displaced refugees in our own land. Tonight, after returning from a vigil marking day 736, I sit here while other families pack bags for their loved ones due to be released within the coming 48 hours, preparing to meet them at the base in Re’im, just five minutes away.  The prayer I have held in my heart for the past month, that the live hostages will be able to sit in their succas, will actually come to fruition. The families don’t know what to expect. They don’t have a clear picture of their loved ones physical and mental situation. I don’t even know if they know if THEIR loved one is one of the live ones or not. They pack hope and fear share the same suitcase.

Tomorrow our community will hold the Nirim Homecoming Event. It’s hard to believe it’s actually happening, here, now, in the middle of all this. It’s not a celebration, even though it falls on our kibbutz anniversary. Because we can’t bring ourselves to celebrate while our hostages are still in Gaza. We will never again mark October 6th, Erev Simchat Torah with joy. Two years ago, it was cursed forever.

I sit here, grateful that no one in my family was kidnapped or killed. Grateful that I could draw a mandala this evening with one granddaughter, and do a puzzle with another. Hopeful that everyone will find their way home. Hopeful that soon, we’ll stop seeing those heartbreaking “permitted for publication” notices naming soldiers who gave their lives so that I can sleep safely in my own bed 2 kms from Gaza.

And yet, even in gratitude, there’s an ache. How do we move forward, living beside neighbors who still wish us dead? How do we rebuild not only homes and fences, but trust, normalcy, and peace of mind?

My body sits here, but my mind feels ready to explode with memories, emotions, and questions that have no easy answers.

So my request to the universe is simple:

Bring all our people home. 
Grant us quiet, uneventful days.
Safe days, when my family can visit without fear.
Peaceful years, when growing old feels like a privilege and my biggest worries are where to go tomorrow, what to wear when I get there, and what to make for dinner.