The longest year

*Scattered through this blogpost are passages from the poem: A Prayer for the Restoration of the Gaza Envelope

* * *

Yizhar told me about a secret field of wild squills: you drive left at Magen Junction, then onto the dirt road on the right after the gravel-lined water station. Not far. I told Adam that I might go there to catch the flowers that bloom around the new Jewish year, as they bathe in the early rays of sunrise, so not to worry if he didn’t see me when he gets up.

Photograph by Yizhar Sha’ar used with his permission.

Lingering lazily in bed on the 21st of Tishrei, 5784, in the abject silence of Kibbutz Nirim — before the yellow-breasted nightingales began their songs, before a distant tractor revved up its plow, during the final moments leading up to the new day’s yawn of dawn that morning, exactly the time when the world had cooled itself as much as it could before the first rays appeared on the scene as the harbinger of the heat that was yet to come, I made excuses to myself. “It’s chilly and dark, and you went to sleep late. Lie in. You can always take the photo tomorrow,” my inner voice said.

So I continued to doze, until 6:29, when the alarms catapulted me from my bed and drove me to the reinforced concrete safe room that every home on the border must have. There’s no time to dilly-dally when you have 0-10 seconds to get to safety before you hear the explosion. Adam, my 33-year-old youngest son, was already there. In days of calm, it doubles as my guest room. The blow-by-blow progression of the hours that followed can be seen here, in the blogpost that I had originally uploaded to Facebook as the day unfolded, until the editors of ToI requested permission to combine the clips and the writing into a blogpost in my name.

Hashem
The envelope has become a wasteland,
Walls broken,
Houses burnt,
Empty streets.

A year ago today, according to the Hebrew date, I was rescued from my safe room, at 17:15 in the afternoon; 11 hours after this nightmare began, 7 hours after terrorists started breaking into my window, inexplicably leaving without finishing the job. Had they not been called away to some other murderous task, we very likely would have been names on the lists of those kidnapped to Gaza. Or worse. It was, therefore, a towering leap of faith to open the door when the soldiers called my name. We were told to be ready for that. It was explained that each team of soldiers who came to extricate us, would be accompanied by someone from Nirim’s first responders unit. Together with that information, I had also been warned that the marauding invaders had arrived equipped with lists of the names and maps of our community, betraying where each of us lived. I had heard stories from other communities of the terrorists using a hostage from the community, forcing him or her at gunpoint to call out people’s names, fooling them into opening their doors. Some of the monsters spoke fluent Hebrew, we were told, and were dressed and armed, like our soldiers.

The “secret” to knowing the difference between soldier and terrorist, it seemed, was that the terrorists didn’t have regulation army boots. Never did I dream that my life, and that of my son, would be dependent on successfully classifying footwear. We could both be dead if I left the safety of my shelter to check, and their shoe company was of the wrong brand. But again — I hear my name being called. I thought I recognized the voice of our head of security, and I so desperately wanted it to be true… that I opened the door.

Selfie with my rescuers

Although I could walk the paths of Nirim with my eyes closed, together with my son and neighbors, we were led through the paths of our familiar lanes, which had now adopted a totally foreign vibe. The roles had turned. Rather than us leading these soldiers around our community, these brave souls who had never been there until a few hours earlier, knew this suddenly surreal and foreign setting better than we did.

In this world that had abruptly been flipped on its head, we were surrounded by reserve soldiers who had abandoned their homes and families from different parts of the country, who had come down south to risk their lives, to rescue us. Suddenly, these outsiders were the tour guides on this horrific trek of survival, leading us down paths which we intuitively would NOT have taken in order to get to our members clubhouse, through our kibbutz which had inconceivably morphed into the scene from some cheap war movie.

There was constant machine gun fire, even an incoming rocket warning which caught us outside and unprotected. We saw and smelt the thick noxious smoke rising from homes on the other side of the kibbutz, and unrecognizable dead bodies strewn alongside the roads, partially concealed in a hurried attempt to protect our souls — especially to hide them from the children among us. But we saw. Their goal was to deliver us safely, through rocket fire and dodging terrorist bullets, to a central area in our community where the soldiers could guard us 360 degrees.

Weary soldiers resting after a night of fighting terrorists; people from Nirim at dawn, October 8, 2023. (courtesy)

The late afternoon continued to unfold, as more and more exhausted survivors arrived. Hugs, nervous laughter, tears ensued. Counting began: who was present? Who was not? Why was that couple from the house behind mine, sitting aside whispering to each other? Why was our other neighbor crying inconsolably, surrounded by people trying to comfort her in vain?

Stories began to unfold. My friend Judih and her husband Gad: unaccounted for. Colleagues murdered. Neighbors and friends: missing. It was only then that I saw my daughter and three granddaughters. I had been so trusting and optimistic that all was well with my own personal brood. It was only then that I learned that Ziv, Raz and Yuval, aged 9,7 and 2 had been in their dad’s house, where terrorists had entered. An armed monster had opened the door of their safe room — but my son in law was ready for him, shooting him just outside the safe room door before he could get to my granddaughters, trembling under the blankets. No children were murdered or kidnapped from Nirim that day, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. If not for their armed and trained father, they too would have been lost to us. It took months for that penny to drop before I fully comprehended how close I had come to losing them

We were evacuated from Nirim the following day, after the army felt relatively sure that the roads were safe enough, protected enough by our troops, to pass, even through an active war zone. When we finally arrived at a hotel in Eilat, for the first time in my life I googled “Birkat HaGomel” (the prayer one says when one has been saved from a life-threatening situation). I was shaken, feeling totally lost. I couldn’t even imagine, back then, the full impact of the horrific attacks on my region: the day I lost more people than I can even count.

We were hosted in a lovely hotel and welcomed warmly by the staff of the King Solomon Hotel and residents of Eilat. Overnight, Eilat morphed from being a sleepy resort vacation town to a city of dazed and battered refugees from communities in the Gaza envelope region, as well as those escaping from the north. Walking down the boardwalk, it felt more like I was in the Eshkol Regional Council than Eilat. I saw so many people I knew from so many communities, who, as I was, were living in one room, washing dishes in the bathroom sink, opening their doors into a hotel hallway rather than their green lawn, eating according to the times designated for us by the hotel. We were the lucky ones. We had survived.

Somewhere around late November/ early December, we realized that this war was not going to finish anytime soon, and that if we didn’t get out of the hotel and into housing that was more suitable for families with children, the woven cloth of experiences, traditions and dreams that holds a community together would unravel and we would not have a community to go back home with, when that time would eventually arrive. Kibbutz is so much more than the fields and the dining room and the cowshed. Kibbutz is a society in itself and that is what builds community, and community builds resilience. If we ever hoped to get our homes and community life back, we understood that we needed to move.

With the help of the government agency, “Tekuma,” we were able to procure enough apartments in the southern city of Beersheba to house all of the Nirim people who wished to remain with the community. That was about 70 percent of us. For a myriad of reasons, 30% of our kibbutz chose to be elsewhere, rather than remaining physically together with the community. Unfortunately, we were unable to find enough apartments in the same neighborhood, to stay near enough to be able to easily interact with each other on a daily basis. We are now living, spread out over four different areas of the city. It was clear that we would need to work diligently to produce the glue that binds communities together. Already we were losing people along the way, and the longer we were away from home, the quicker that glue would crack and disintegrate.

The moving process was far more organized than I could ever have imagined. Whoever wanted to tour the neighborhoods and see sample houses, were brought to Beersheva for a tour and explanations. We were asked to choose which neighborhood we preferred to be in, even which people we would most like as neighbors. A committee toiled for days — even weeks — working out the puzzle to the best of their ability. Representatives came to present the furniture options (three different packages of kitchen-bedroom-living room furniture from Ikea). Most of the people chose the same package I did, and it is strange walking into others’ homes and feeling the familiarity. It was almost a time warp back into the past, to the old days of the kibbutz, when you were provided a limited (if any) choice in furniture, appliances and clothing — to ensure socialist equality. In those days, we had no private money. The kibbutz bought everything, and it was cheaper in bulk.

We were informed that when the apartments were ready, we would be asked to drive the three hours to Beersheva to help volunteers clean them, so that we could move in. That never happened, because there were more than enough volunteers who showed up to clear, organize, and put the furniture together. When we received the keys to our apartments in late January of this year — after 3 ½ months of living in hotel rooms — we opened our doors to our new, beautiful, light-flooded apartments, complete with welcoming notes, a cake and flowers. The kitchen cupboards were stocked with essentials and all that was left for us to do was unpack.

A year has passed since our lives were suddenly, violently changed forever.

Nine months of living has happened since we moved to our temporary homes in Beersheva. During those months, I have been abroad numerous times, telling our stories to the world, raising awareness, and trying to raise funds so we can rebuild and move home. Months of photography, art therapy, family visits, and vigils demanding the return of our hostages, because the healing of our entire society cannot begin until they are all brought home: the dead, for burial; those still physically alive: to the bosoms of their families and communities for healing. Months of tears, learning about more and more people who I will never again see, hearing witness accounts of the horrors they are enduring, dreaming about going home, but aware that home will never be the same again, CAN never be the same again, without the people who embodied the very concept of home, be it on the community level or the regional level. Tears for all I have lost and can never, ever retrieve, no matter how hard I try. Time and circumstances over which I have no control march on and the clock can never be turned back. All that, while this existential war of survival is still violently ongoing, and each day brings with it the new “approved for publication” names of young bright lights who have been snuffed out, forfeited their lives to keep our country safe. Each one, a universe in her or himself.

Embrace the survivors,
Bring healing to their bodies and souls,
Revive their villages and towns,
And bring a new era of life and security to the land of the Gaza envelope and its people.

We, from Nirim, will be able to go home.

The damage to our homes was quantitatively less than some of the other kibbutzim. We have begun to close the circles of mourning. Our hostages have been returned to begin the long, arduous road of healing. The two who were brutally murdered, Yagev and Nadav, were brought home to be buried in our cemetery. We don’t know when we will be able to return, permanantly, but my personal estimation is around Passover.

Days blend into weeks. Rather than by calendar, I measure the time by how many jars of Nescafe I have used since I came (3? 4?), how many times I’ve changed the filter on the Brita water jug and how many I should buy for the future (at home I have a Tami-4 filter machine…. I miss it). There are advantages to living in an apartment in a high rise building. The breeze is comforting. I am not plagued by ants or mosquitoes, and when you are on the 21st floor you have a front row seat for beautiful urban sunsets. But I DO miss home. I have renovation plans that will help me feel more safe and secure, and as soon as they are done, and we are told by the army that it is safe to move back, I’m down for it!

They say that a people who have a sickle in one hand and a gun in the other are a people who are here to stay. We will be there with the sickle. Our army will be there with the guns. I am ready to close this circle. In fact, I will be leaving as soon as I finish this post, to return to step on the soil of Nirim, especially on this day, a year from when the sky crashed down and my home was conquered by evil terrorist monsters. I will go back and reclaim that which is mine.

May new wheat grow in the old familiar fields
May new songs be sung where screams and silence have reigned.
May we all find the strength to do what is needed
To help our brothers and sisters
Reclaim their lives
In peace.

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Poetry from “Az Nashir: We Will Sing Again: Women’s Prayers for our Time of Need,” compiled and edited by Shira Lankin Sheps, Rachel Sharansky Danzinger, Anne Gordon. Published by The Shvilli Center, The Layers Press