This is part of a series, “Uprooted.” Each column is a curated monologue from an individual among the tens of thousands of internally displaced Israelis during the war with Hamas who were evacuated from the country’s northern border and the Gaza envelope.
I was born in Moshav Talmei Yosef in northwest Negev in 1982. My parents, who had immigrated from South Africa in 1979, were first evacuated from Sinai. In 1981, they faced yet another evacuation, this time from the “old” Talmei Yosef, which was situated near Yamit, an Israeli settlement in the northern part of the Sinai Peninsula. Yamit itself was evacuated in 1982. My parents reminisce about camping trips to Ras Burqa in Egypt, and my dad even got his motorbike license in Rafah, where they also used to do their shopping.
Following the evacuation, some residents relocated to Netiv HaAsara and other places. Not everyone chose to move to the new Talmei Yosef.
On Simchat Torah eve, a Friday, October 6, my sister Nicole from Beersheba came over with her husband and kids. Sasha, a close friend from Rehovot, also joined with her two children. Normally, my sister stays overnight, but this time she decided to head back home.
After dinner, Sasha and I went to a party near the Besor River. There were three parties that night: the big Supernova party in Re’im, another party near Nirim, and the party near the Besor River, organized by my friend who had been inviting people since Thursday for camping on the Besor riverbanks.
I did not want to leave my parents too long with four kids, so we got back home around 1 a.m. The kids had set up a tent on the lawn, but on the night between Friday and Saturday, they ended up sleeping inside the house.
Saturday, October 7th
Around 6:30 a.m., my 10-year-old daughter Atalia woke me up, saying, “Mom, there are so many booms.” I hadn’t heard them, and there was no Red Alert (Israel’s rocket alert system). I usually don’t wake up from the booms unless they are exceptionally loud or close. I got up and realized that the situation was far from the “normal” Red Alert scenario.
I’ve lived in Talmei Yosef since birth, so I’m familiar with all the noises — I can distinguish between our Iron Dome firing, their rockets, gunfire, helicopter firing or tank firing. As I don’t have a safe room in my caravan (since I live on my parents’ land), we headed into their safe room.
We managed to grab some dolls, blankets and another mattress, thinking we could close the door and continue sleeping. There’s a mini-fridge with water and snacks in the safe room, so we’re okay in that regard. We took our phones and chargers and entered the safe room. We were eight people and three dogs.
Then we got a message on the “Talmi Yosef Security” WhatsApp group about a potential terrorist infiltration, telling us to head to the safe room. I can’t remember if they mentioned locking it, but we usually don’t lock the door to make a potential rescue easier from outside. Still, after a past infiltration incident in Sdei Avraham (a moshav near the Gaza Strip border), we added a bolt. My dad installed the same bolt for other people in the moshav.
And then the Red Alerts started. We weren’t aware at all of the magnitude of the situation outside. At some point, the power went out, and our phones were weak on battery, so we decided to catch up on some sleep. An hour later, when the power came back on, the internet went out. We planned to turn the TV for updates once the power returned. We heard gunfire, missiles and helicopter gunfire, which is unusual. The volume was crazy loud.”
Were you afraid?
Very much. I still am.
What are you afraid of?
A few days ago, there was an Iron Dome interception right above us. We’re situated in the middle of nowhere near the Jordan border, and my fear is that a missile might fall on us or, God forbid, something will happen on the border. No matter where you go in this country, you’ll find yourself near a border. I’m terrified of something happening to my daughters.
Anyway, on that Saturday, everyone was getting hungry at a certain point. Sasha and I decided to go out and prepare something to eat, and my parents said they would take turns using the bathroom. On the way, I entered my parents’ room, turned on the TV, and saw a headline: 200 dead.
I realized that something really bad was happening. I was diagnosed with PTSD from all the previous “rounds.” Every noise startles me, every door slam, every plane passing above me. Every little thing grabs my attention. I started suffering from severe anxiety attacks and decided to go for diagnosis and treatment.
For a long time, I resisted going to therapy. I was afraid I would fall apart and wouldn’t be able to function, especially since I was the responsible adult in the household. But the anxiety attacks intensified and I started suffering from insomnia. It became difficult for me to function, so I started therapy.
How did you all feel during those long hours in the safe room?
I was scared to death, but I managed to function. I asked Sasha to keep an eye on the news and went to make some food. Along the way, I made sure to lock all the doors, close the blinds, and turn off all the lights. We brought the food to the safe room, and I asked my mom to go watch the news because I didn’t want to discuss things next to the girls.
As more news came in, and the casualty count rose, I gathered everyone and said, “Listen, this is serious, and we’re leaving this room only if it’s an emergency.” I think Sasha and my parents might have thought I was being hysterical, maybe they attributed it to my PTSD, and they may have been right — that might’ve played a part.
I remember telling my therapist once about having dreams of terrorists breaking into my home. We talked about the possibility of such a thing happening. After all, we have a border with a smart fence and Iron Dome, and the army pounces on every plastic bag touching the fence. We believed they were keeping us safe, but it turns out my fears were justified.
Talmei Yosef wasn’t infiltrated that day. Members of the local rapid response team identified the potential for infiltration, and they were deployed and ready with two M16 rifles and four personal weapons. We heard a lot of close gunfire. I don’t remember what I told the girls.
Occasionally, text messages would come in from the WhatsApp security group: a report of 1,400 injured; a message asking to gather information about people at the Supernova party near Re’im; an attempt to find people who wouldn’t answer their phones. On Sunday morning, we were still in the safe room. At 10:17 a.m., a text came in: There are terrorists in Yated, a nearby moshav. At 10:40, another text: No one goes out of the moshav until further notice.
The evacuation
I hadn’t evacuated in any previous war, but the impact on my daughters during the last one made me decide that if there’s a next time, we’d evacuate. On Sunday, they texted us about an organized evacuation by the army. I was afraid to leave, and I was afraid to stay, so I reached out to someone I trusted and asked, “What do you think?” His advice was: “Take the girls and leave.”
I begged my parents to leave, but they did not want to evacuate. On the one hand, I felt that I was abandoning them to die, but I also felt that I had to get out of there with the girls as soon as possible.
What did you pack to take with you?
One shirt, one pair of pants, and some summer clothes for the girls — but not enough. There wasn’t time to think about what I was packing. I grabbed my best kitchen knife, thinking I could defend myself if a terrorist came… I also made sure to bring my medications for fibromyalgia; I was scared of a potential flare-up after enjoying a good period when I returned to work and things started improving.
Dealing with fibromyalgia meant there were times I was bedridden. It took a while for people to understand what I was going through. I try not to take long car trips for fear that a flare-up might make it difficult for me to stay alert.
Our first stop was at my sister’s place in Beersheba, where we stayed for one night. I told her and my brother that my parents were refusing to evacuate, and my sister got angry at them. My brother, who is the chillest person I know, called and screamed at them to leave. On Monday, they finally came and brought my dogs along.
I looked for a place where I could bring my dogs and decided to head to a secluded farm near Mitzpe Ramon. Despite the circumstances, if it weren’t for the forced evacuation, I might have actually enjoyed it. They welcomed us so warmly; words fail to describe their kindness.
Back at home, there are two cats and 50 chickens left. The neighbors who stayed to tend to the farms and fields, along with those in the response team, are looking after them. After spending a week on the farm in Mitzpe Ramon, I initially booked a dog-friendly hotel in Eilat but canceled at the last moment. The idea of being in the city literally made my chest ache.
My daughters’ two best friends are in Paran, in the Arava Valley, and they were desperate for company. I got in touch with someone in Paran who gave me the contact details of people offering separate housing units (small apartments adjacent to the main house).
What does daily life look like?
Our living space is small — even smaller than a one-room apartment. There’s no separate living room, and the kitchen is part of the room. When we arrived, Anabel’s best friend was waiting for us and immediately took the girls on a tour of the moshav.
We initially considered sharing this unit with my parents, since we couldn’t find a place for them. However, someone from the moshav warned us against living in such a crowded space and found a separate housing unit for my parents with a couple whose son had been called up as a reservist.
We are doing nothing and doing a lot at the same time. We have a toaster oven, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge. Our dining area is a small table outside. I do laundry at the neighbors across the street, who have a khan (a tourist campground, common in the area) that had been inactive for several years and is now opened for reservists. They’ve set up a laundry room that serves both reservists and evacuees.
The sense of displacement is palpable. We were uprooted from our home after a massacre. Unlike kibbutz members, moshav residents are scattered in various places, each dealing with their own baggage. I feel a sense of detachment from every angle. On the bright side, there are wonderful volunteers here, helping us with everything. And I do get some welfare support as a single parent without alimony.
What do you miss the most?
I miss my home. I miss my corner in the living room where I make art – from jewelry to modeling clay, painting, and sculpting. About two weeks into the war, we headed back to Talmi Yosef to pack more art supplies, take out the trash, and clean out the fridge which had a terrible smell due to spoiled meat caused by power outages. It was pretty nasty.
What is home for you?
That’s a complicated question. I want to go back to the landscape of my childhood, to the house where I grew up and where I’ve raised my daughters until now. I want to go back to my beautiful yard, the fruit trees I’ve nurtured all these years, my chickens and my cats that I left behind, to my neighbors and friends – to everything! All of these elements make up a home for me.
On the other hand, a home should be a place where you feel safe, and I’m not convinced that I’ll ever be able to feel safe in my own home again. I don’t feel safe anywhere now. I feel caged. At night, I sleep in jeans and a shirt and not in pajamas so that if God forbid, someone breaks in, at least I’ll be dressed.
On one Friday, my mother prepared the dish she used to cook every Friday – lemon chicken. It’s the simplest and most delicious dish. And suddenly, for a moment, I felt at home.
School in Ein Yahav
A few weeks ago, they opened a learning center in Ein Yahav for the children of Eshkol Regional Council evacuees. Initially, I hesitated to send my daughters there because I didn’t want to be apart from them. However, I realized that establishing a routine is critical for their well-being. They’ve set up a wonderful and supportive school for them there, but I still feel anxious when they are not by my side.
Anabel’s class has nine children and Atalia’s class has 20. Everyone is from the Eshkol Regional Council, including the teachers. The school day begins at nine in the morning, which is great. In the morning, they have a STEM lesson, and the rest of the day, as my girls put it, “passes joyfully by.” Those who need private tutoring receive it.
Soon, the school will add art and animal therapy classes. The most wonderful thing is that once a week, they have a “forest day,” which is their favorite. I wish school would always look like this. There are round-trip shuttles, and classes end by 1:00 p.m.
To sum it up, it’s like an ideal school – great staff, small classes, and each class has a soldier-teacher for extra support. They learn the truly important stuff, and the rest of the day is all about enjoyable learning. It’s pretty much what childhood should be like.
The future
Talmei Yosef is my paradise, and I want to go back there. There was a time when I thought they [the government and the IDF] were looking out for us, but now I know that’s not the case. Right now, we’re in the dark with no clear timeline. I’m just going through the motions, doing what’s necessary, and it’s tough. The situation lacks clarity because, on one hand, we won’t head back until it’s safe, but then again, how can we even feel safe again?
Our trust has taken a major hit. They betrayed all of us. I believe every one of the 120 Knesset members should be held accountable. They all attend different committees, so everyone should resign.
I can’t help but imagine what might have happened if this had occurred on a Sunday morning. We could have all been left without our kids since our school is just four kilometers from the border.
How can I bring my daughters back to that school? How does one go back when it looks like half the kids won’t return, and some teachers and caregivers won’t either? My daughters have classmates dealing with the loss of family members or missing family members. A woman from my year, who worked as a cop at the Supernova party near Re’im, was murdered on that day.
My daughters saw me crying and wanted to know why. I told them that something happened to my friend, and they asked, “Mom, is she injured or killed?”
We don’t know how we will return to living in Talmei Yosef, and it breaks my heart. On the other hand, even if I find a place elsewhere, it won’t be home. I think this sense of detachment will stick with me until I return, if I ever do.
The support from Paran’s residents is truly incredible. My apartment owner welcomed me without even knowing if she’d get compensation. Every time I bring something up, there’s always someone ready to help. The community here in Paran has embraced us warmly. It’s so comforting that people care so much, and yet everything feels so bad that it’s hard to contain all this kindness. And where is the government in all of this?
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