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. This interview was originally published in Hebrew on June 15, 2024.
First conversation. Beginning of November 2023
On Yom Kippur eve (September 24, 2023), I shared a photo of the Mefalsim fields on Facebook with the caption, “There’s a feeling of Yom Kippur War 2.0 in the air.” Why did I write that? Maybe because I could recognize a quiet that was too quiet. I recognize different types of noise and when Hamas is training.
Friday, October 6
Before dinner, I sat with my sons and their girlfriends and suddenly said, “The day Hamas comes and knocks down that stupid fence is not far off. In the last few weeks, they’ve cut it and torn it. They’ll come in their masses and massacre us all.”
That fence drove me crazy. At our kibbutz, they wanted to build a wall around the new neighborhood, and I said that if that happened, I would leave Mefalsim. You cannot put up walls or do anything else.
I was born and raised in Ra’anana. I arrived in Mefalsim at the age of 18 as part of a group of enlistees in the Nahal Brigade. Nir, a member of the kibbutz, was my group’s commander in basic training, and we’ve been together ever since. Mefalsim is the second-biggest kibbutz near the Gaza border after Kfar Aza and the first to understand that the farmers were getting older and that if we didn’t establish new neighborhoods on the edge of the kibbutz, it wouldn’t survive.
We were the first to establish an extension for external residents, we thrived in education and culture, and even though my kids learn in an anthroposophy school in Beersheba and not in the kibbutz institutions, they took part in afterschool activities and youth meetups.
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Saturday, October 7
At 6:30, we heard a red alert. I shouted to everyone to get up and run into the safe room. Nir, who is a member of the emergency response team, got ready to run out and said he was going to check on the olive grove where some families were camping and from where terrorists came later.
There were crazy volleys of rockets with no breaks, and still, Nir went back and forth multiple times to bring people back. And then he ran into the house already carrying his vest and gun and said, “Things are happening here.” Uri, 22, a combat soldier in Nahal, said to him “Dad, I’m coming with,” and Nir told him to set up the radio and stay home.
Itamar, 24, who lives in a caravan in the grove, had slept at our house that night. Uri and Itamar stayed in the living room. Yonatan, 20, was with his girlfriend at her father’s house. Alma, 18, Rotem, 15, and Talia, 13, were in the safe room with me, as was Uri’s girlfriend.
Among my various jobs, I was a librarian at the kibbutz library, and messages started appearing in the southern kibbutzim’s librarians’ WhatsApp group. Someone asked what was happening in Kfar Aza. In another group, some wrote, “Don’t leave your safe rooms.” In the background, I could hear the radio. The whole war was in the house: shouting, chants of “Allahu Akbar,” and gunfire.
To prevent the theft of weapons, our head of security, Moshe Kaplan, left the guns — against regulations — with the emergency response team members. That was probably our first lucky thing.
When Nir came back from driving the families who had been in the grove, he saw Thai people in the hands of terrorists. Together with another team member, he was able to rescue them. There were four combat soldiers in the kibbutz that Saturday, and they joined the emergency response team. Grenades were thrown at them, they were injured, they managed to repel the terrorists, and then survivors from the Supernova music festival arrived and started knocking on doors.
At noon, the electricity went out. There was no communication. A lot of people tried to reach us and didn’t know what was happening. Uri’s girlfriend’s parents were out of their minds with worry. We spent hours in the safe room in fear.
At 7:45 p.m., Itamar began to shout, “Enough, I’ve had it! Either we leave now, or they’ll massacre us all!” He went to get a generator to charge our phones, we took a few things and left in three cars to friends in Mashavei Sad’e where I would evacuate in previous operations.
Uri stood at the gate of the kibbutz with other soldiers who had arrived at the kibbutz. After four hours of fighting, he joined Nir and the emergency response team. When they ran out of ammunition, they took the terrorists’ weapons. In the beginning, he wasn’t capable of shooting people. He only agreed to do so after he realized what they were facing, but it was still difficult for him.
We left in three cars. Outside was darkness, heavy heat, and a lot of fires. Shortly before that, they had announced that the kibbutz was cleared of terrorists and that there was a “breeze,” meaning evacuation. Soon after, they announced that the “breeze” was canceled and that whoever wanted to could evacuate independently but it wasn’t recommended.
We reached the gate and didn’t know what way to go. The gunfire was massive and crazy. We were scared that there were more terrorists in the kibbutz. Uri said, “Drive through Kibbutz Bror Hayil and keep your heads down.” I thought he was scared we would get shot at. The scene didn’t occur to me: bodies scattered everywhere, in the middle of the road, on cars and motorbikes, like in a war movie.
You try to escape, and you’re stepping on bodies, and suddenly you see a stolen tank at a standstill. They stole tanks. Some people went out at 5 p.m. and were shot at, so they went back and left again at 2 a.m.
We heard gunfire the whole way. I drove incredibly fast until Kiryat Gat, and I ran red lights at every traffic light, and then Nir said, “Drive north, not south.” We stopped to refuel and wait for Uri and Itamar. We wondered what had happened to the Kutz family — Livnat and Aviv and their three children — who were close friends of ours from Kfar Aza. They were cut off.
I called Livnat’s cousin, and she said that Hamas had probably stolen their phones. After that, we got the awful news that the whole family had been murdered. A lot of my patients were murdered, and people I knew were taken hostage. There is no end to the horror and the grief.
I decided to go to Nir’s cousin who lives in Caesarea. Ten of us arrived in Caesarea, and suddenly there was quiet. A house with a pool, another world. Unfathomable dissonance. Nir stayed in Mefalsim to fight with the emergency response team.
That night, more kibbutz members arrived in Caesarea, and we started to hear about hostages we knew. The situation was still unclear. Meanwhile, the kibbutz members were evacuated to hotels in Netanya. There were 25 of us in one house who refused to split up. The togetherness was our life raft. We looked for a place we could evacuate to together, and we reached Ma’agan Michael where three caravans were arranged for us.
They welcomed us wonderfully, but there was no safe room, only a communal concrete shelter. We felt unsafe. Everyone fell apart. That’s when the children said they wanted to go to the hotel. I had never evacuated with the whole community before, but at that point, I understood that I had to do what was right for my kids.
After two weeks, the kibbutz moved to the Dan Accadia Resort in Herzliya, and we were with them. We couldn’t be with living people when we were dying inside.
Life in the hotel
I don’t leave here for anything other than funerals and shivas. Although I’m talking to you now, most of the time, I can’t stand people’s questions. I can’t explain what happened, I don’t have patience, and it’s hard for me to be in the position of a beggar and need donations. People who come to visit ask what they can bring, but I don’t want anything.
I don’t want to buy anything, and I don’t want anything from home. I don’t miss anything from home, I cannot even think. I live minute to minute in the hotel. I wake up in the morning, go to a funeral, from there to a shiva, and then I go for a swim. Arak is the only thing I allow myself sometimes to blur the shock.
We were at the Kutzes’ funeral, and Nir fell apart in my arms. I thought that surely tomorrow we would see them. It cannot be that they’re gone.
Nir is in Mefalsim managing the dairy and the coops. He’s a member of the emergency response team, and he’s always busy. If he doesn’t stay active, he’ll collapse. From the moment he left the house that morning on October 7 until October 12, he fought in a tank top, leggings, and a ceramic vest.
Second conversation. Mid-January 2024
I’ve started coordinating the cultural events at the hotel, and I’m in charge of the performances, the extracurriculars, and the lectures. In the beginning, everyone came to volunteer: Teapacks, the cast of “Eretz Nehederet,” Gal Toren, Guri Alfi, Yaniv Biton, and others. At the end of every performance, we sat with a cup of arak and talked. Everyone wanted to hear stories about people I knew who were taken hostage or murdered.
I told them about Tomer Arava Eliaz, the son of our friend, Maayan, from Nir Oz and Dikla Arava who was murdered with her boyfriend Noam Elyakim. Ella and Dafna, Noam’s daughters, were taken hostage and released 50 days later at the end of November.
Hamas forced Tomer to knock on his neighbors’ doors so that they would open them and he was ultimately kidnapped and murdered on the way to Gaza. There is no end to the difficult stories.
I’ve gone back to homeopathic therapy a bit, and I work a bit at the Nine Lives publishing company store in Tel Aviv.
Recently, a few major generals came to the hotel to speak to us. As far as they’re concerned, we can return in February even though they said the war would continue throughout 2024. The kibbutz looks like a military base. Do I want to raise kids who cannot walk around freely in their home while the nonstop noise of war can be heard in the background? As of right now, I’ve only distanced myself from the idea of going back.
Nir is still in the emergency response team and works in agriculture where needed. Like a 51-year-old soldier, I only see him once in two weeks. We met when I was a soldier, and it takes me back to the time of Beaufort, the Madrid Conference before Oslo when he was in Lebanon for two months, and I was still an office clerk in Nahal. I miss him.
How are the kids?
The kids are incredible. The girls went back to school in Beersheba. We have a friend who works in Beersheba, and he picks them up from the train station and takes them to school. Talia went to a school in Givatayim for a short while, but she quickly realized that she wanted to go back to learning with her friends. Alma has grown up in no time at all.
Rotem is in ninth grade and studies in Herzliya in a class with no other kids from Sha’ar Hanegev. In the last few months, he’s become a beachgoer. Every morning before school, he goes to surf, showers, and goes to school. Some weeks, he goes to work with Nir, building pergolas in the kibbutz and picking oranges.
Each of them has created a routine for themselves, and as far as they’re concerned, they’re going back to Mefalsim when the war ends. Not like their mother. I’m confused. This time, I have no idea what will happen, and that’s okay. Nir would also stay in Mefalsim. It’s his home, his land. He’s already spent a weekend at the kibbutz with the kids, but I’m not capable of getting on Route 232.
Since October 7, I’ve become vegetarian. Meat makes me sick after all the bodies I saw and the scorched smell.
After Protective Edge, there was a period of quiet, and I assume that will also happen this time. Beyond that, I don’t see any change. I don’t believe anyone. I don’t want them to erect another fence or build a wall. Other than a diplomatic solution, I don’t see another way.
At first, there were 670 kibbutz members in the hotel, and now there are 300 of us. Many members found independent solutions and rented apartments in the area to be close to the extracurriculars, the action, and the gatherings we have in the hotel.
Why did you stay?
I thought that if I left, I would end my role in the community and I wouldn’t go to any more lectures or gatherings. Other than that, I’m not willing to become a taxi driver, and if I leave the hotel, that’s what will happen. The children have independence here. The hotel is on the beach, and they have activities courtesy of Five Fingers — a combat training school that gives training and surfing classes. They also have the Working Youth, informal education meetings and loads of friends.
The children wanted a kitchen in the room, so I bought a Ninja food processor and electric stove, and I cook in the room which already looks like a little house.
Rotem and Uri live in one room, and Uri’s girlfriend joins them when she comes over. When Nir comes, he sleeps with the girls and me. There’s no privacy. When they leave for school, I get into a frenzy of action and logistics with the hotel.
We have a space that we use for different activities. Early in the morning, there’s yoga and pilates. After that, it’s used for kindergartens, and after 4 p.m., we have extracurriculars like judo, krav maga, and robotics. Between each activity, the space needs to be tidied up, and I do that together with Sagit. In the evening, we have a little bar with alcohol, and when there isn’t anyone to run it, we’re also barmaids. If I rest, I sink.
Third conversation. May 2024
A few weeks ago, I began working as a community relations manager on a project called “For the Community.” We organize trips for communities from the Gaza border. The trips start with a week in the Secret Forest in Cyprus — a retreat for healing and renewal.
The process requires multitudes. All day, you sit in discussion circles, engage in writing, and even go into nature with psychotherapists and instructors from different fields. The goal is to process the events of October 7. For some people, it’s their first opportunity to approach their stories on a timeline.
This trip is the starting point for a process in which the same group of 18 people meet once a month and start a project to rehabilitate the south.
It isn’t a missionary initiative to bring people back to the Gaza border communities, but to restore a feeling of belonging. It’s meant to restore faith, mutuality, and community because things look different without a community. The program is open to everyone who held their safe room doors closed on October 7 — literally and metaphorically.
Nir is still in the kibbutz and working in agriculture. He lives the life of a bachelor together with Yonatan who is with him in Mefalsim most of the time. Once every two weeks, he comes to Herzliya for a weekend. Itamar is abroad, and Uri is in the army. Talia and Alma go to school in Beersheba, Rotem studies in Herzliya, and Yonatan has worked in gardening in Kfar Aza since ending his national service year.
At the same time, Yonatan has taken on renovating our house which was damaged by shrapnel and where the top floor has filled with mold. Some families went back to the kibbutz, mainly single people and people over the age of 60, but 100 families out of 400 decided not to go back at all. That’s a quarter of the kibbutz’s families.
I went to Mefalsim for the first time since October 7 for the last day of Passover. The night before, I had attended an event that had been organized for the emergency response team members and their wives in the kibbutz grove. I didn’t want Nir to be there alone, so I picked him up from the house (I didn’t go inside), and when the evening ended, we went back to the hotel together.
The next day, we went to the kibbutz for the holiday. It was our first family dinner back in the house. I immediately went into the kitchen to make pickled cabbage and other things. It was nice to sit together around the table in our house.
How do you feel these days?
Work saves me. I’m busy helping others which helps me too. After my trip to Cyprus, my hermetic resistance to going to the kibbutz was eased. I no longer feel sick when I drive on Route 232. The first time I drove there I cried the whole way.
Life is still one big question mark, and I’m slowly reaching the understanding that it won’t go back to normal and we need to start something new that I’m not sure what it is, but there’s no point in being stuck. The communities are broken, and what was will never be again and cannot ever be, but there will be something else.
Of course, we’re very busy with the hostages issue. “We’re not whole without you” isn’t just a slogan, it’s the truth, and unfortunately, no one cares about the protests.
We need to sit down and figure out who to talk to and try to advance a different conversation with Hamas. A general marketwide strike. Stop the nation. People in Herzliya Pituah walk along the beach with their sweet little dogs like they’re on a different planet.
The mutual aid that we saw in the beginning has petered out. People are tired. The problem has gone back to being ours alone. In Mefalsim, we can still hear the sounds of war, and some people think it’s normal for us to keep living like that. But it’s not normal. It was never normal.
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