Waiting for the Chariot: Life on the edge of war

589 days ago, the life I had known imploded.

The community and home I had built and lived in for my entire adult life became a fire-and-brimstone war zone. Since 588 days ago, I have been a refugee in my own land.

Photo credit: Adele Raemer

Following the invasion of 150 marauding terrorists, my kibbutz was evacuated to Eilat — a 3½-hour drive from home. Then, in January 2024, we were relocated again, this time spread out over four different neighborhoods in the city of Be’er Sheva — just 45 minutes away from Nirim.

At first, I returned to Nirim cautiously, fearfully. Rockets were still exploding — some landing inside the kibbutz — compounding the devastation inflicted by the terrorists on October 7th. But even as fear pulsed through me on every return trip, I was on a mission: to raise funds for rebuilding, to share our stories with anyone willing to listen, and to reconquer and reclaim my home.

I kept coming back. Nearly every week. My heart would race each time I approached the border region, but I came anyway. I had purpose.

I guided people through the ruins. I bore witness. I told the story of that day — the day when terrorists stole so much from my life. I lost more friends than I can even count. I almost lost my daughter and granddaughters. My son and I escaped the terrorists’ murderous wrath by a sliver — they were on my front porch, breaking in through the window, before being lured away. We’ll never know by what.

Photo credit: Adele Raemer

Coming Home

With each tentative visit, I began to reacclimate. My pulse steadied. My frayed nerves, healed. I fell back in love with our roads, our skies, our stubborn desert beauty.

Still, my heart clenches every time I drive past Nir Oz, to get to Nirim. The atrocities committed there — just a mile from home — are impossible to forget. I know I’ll never again drive west on that entrance road with the joyful purpose of picking up my dear friend Judih.

As a community, we made a decision: we wouldn’t just fix what was broken. We would rebuild. Bigger. Better. Safer. Stronger. More beautiful.

I didn’t just talk the talk on my fundraising tours. I walked the walk. Our houses were all painted and repaired by the government.  I dug deep into my own pockets to replace the windows. I installed new electronic blinds to feel a bit more secure.

In February 2025, it was finally my turn to receive hands-on help. A team of civilian volunteers and special forces soldiers arrived to help me reclaim my house — cleaning, sweeping, schlepping, moving furniture, putting things back into place. Together, they turned my house back into my home.

I was ready to begin sleeping here again.

Holding On and Holding Off

After a few nights, I even considered giving up my apartment in Be’er Sheva. But a friend advised me to wait:

“We don’t know where this war is going. Once you give up the apartment, you have 60 days before you’re out. There’s no walking that back.”

Since Passover, I’ve spent most nights at home. I watched a beautiful new porch being built — my personal homecoming gift to myself. I still visit the Be’er Sheva apartment to water plants or crash there when needed, but truthfully, I only feel I can breathe when I’m on Nirim.

I walk the paths. I see the few others who have returned. In those early days, even while traumatized, the simple act of seeing others — my people — walking around the kibbutz helped me heal. Their presence said: we’re still here. We’re not giving up.

Some haven’t come back at all. Some come only briefly, anxious to leave. I see them. I understand them. I was them.

A few weeks ago, I decided that I want to be the one who is here. Who stays. Who quietly helps others feel safer — simply by living life, by creating a semblance of normal.

Photo credit: Adele Raemer

The Noise That Shakes the Walls

But the past few days have grown louder. More violent. We’re standing on the precipice of a new stage in this war.  We are at a moment which could go either way: hostage deal or renewed, intensive battle.

This morning, I woke at home with the chilling understanding that I may have to evacuate again.

Not because of infiltration. Not because of rockets — I’ve lived with 0–10 second rocket warnings for two decades. I know how to handle rockets.

But the noise. The reverberations. The blood curdling blasts — shaking the walls, rattling the windows, vibrating through your bones. That’s harder. That’s why I’ve started sleeping in my safe room instead of my bedroom. The thicker walls offer some insulation from the terrifying blasts that come with no warning, shaking your very essence.

It’s one thing to endure those sounds during the day. But being jolted awake night after night will begin to wear me down — physically, emotionally.

So this morning, I did what I’ve done before: I began mentally packing.

Medications. Camera gear. Laptop. Art supplies. The things I need for both survival and sanity.

I calculated what food to take from my fridge. What clothes I’d want. Once again, I was returning to the mindset of a refugee in my own land.

And the awful truth? Many of us who’ve returned to our homes on the border — and most communities have — now have nowhere to evacuate to.

Gideon’s Chariot

I’m awaiting the chariot with trepidation.

Not my chariot — but “Gideon’s Chariot,” the code name for this impending military operation.

What impact will it have?

On our lives? On our newly renovated homes — will the walls crack again, will our windows shatter once more?

More significantly: what effect will it have on the 58 hostages still being held in Gaza? If it’s so loud for me, what petrifying sounds will it cause for them?  How will their torturers react? I shudder to even think of it. 

Will this operation bring them home?

Can anything bring them home without another military move?

Will it bring us the security we need for families to feel safe moving back to Nirim with their children, to assure us all that October 7th can never happen again?

I won’t pretend to know the answers. What terrifies me more is that I don’t think anyone does.

Why I’m Sharing This

Because I know I’m not the only one quietly preparing to re-evacuate.

Because these are the thoughts and decisions weighing on many of us — in communities along the Gaza border — today.

Because this is the reality you probably won’t hear about on the news.

We are here. We are rebuilding. We are living with the noise, the unknown, and the memories, even though I do not know where I will be sleeping in the weeks to come. 

And I am certain — still — that one day this land, and our lives, will be whole again.

Photo credit: Adele Raemer