This is the second in 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 Morag, a Nahal settlement located in [the Gaza Strip] between Khan Yunis and Rafah. Growing up, we were very good friends with the Arab residents there. Family events and shopping trips were routine. My dad, originally from Tel Aviv, dreamt of being a farmer.
With friends from the Nahal Revivim settlement, they established the Morag outpost in the Gush Katif area. [Gush Katif, a bloc of 17 Israeli settlements in the southern Gaza Strip, was evacuated in August 2005, as part of Israel’s unilateral disengagement from Gaza.]
In 1982, following the evacuation of Yamit, Morag faced a similar fate. We were relocated to the Ashkelon Regional Council, specifically to Pithat Shalom, comprising the six southern communities within the council.
This land holds a profound significance for me; it is intertwined with my soul and my roots. My children, 16, 14, and 10-year-old twins, represent the third generation in this region, with familial connections on both sides.
My husband’s parents, fellow evacuees from Yamit, were instrumental in founding Moshav Dekel, while my own parents established Kibbutz Yevul and dedicated themselves to flower farming on the land they helped cultivate. Today, we own and manage a 62-acre farm specializing in peppers and tomatoes.
Saturday, October 7
On Friday, October 6, the eve of Simchat Torah, I got this weird feeling. My son had plans to hang out with a friend in Kibbutz Be’eri for the weekend. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something in my gut told me to ask him to hold off.
My husband, Ahi, who’s into nature parties, was all set to go to the party at Nirim or the one at Re’im, but again something felt off, so I asked him not to go. Instead, I quickly made plans with friends from Kfar Saba to come over on Saturday afternoon for a barbecue.
At 6:35, I woke up to the sounds of explosions and missiles whistling nearby. No Red Alert, no sirens. As I rushed the kids, I thought to myself, “There’s something different here, something bigger than what we’re used to.”
These are the noises I’ve been hearing for the last 18 years. Since Shani was one, and I was pregnant with Shalev, we’ve been running away every time it gets tense – and I use that term intentionally — and move around until it’s quiet again, and we can come back.
The gunfire was intense. We rushed into the safe room, and after about five minutes, my husband, who’s a deputy commander in the local rapid response counter-terrorist unit got a text, grabbed his gear – vest, helmet, handgun, and M16 – and rushed out of the house.
Reception was bad in the safe room, but I managed to stay in touch with Avital, my cousin in Kibbutz Holit. She texted, “There are crazy booms out here.” Then she calls, and I hear screams. I told her, “Get into the safe room, lock the door.” We kept talking until 9:30 when she suddenly texts me, “Tehila is dead.” Tehila was her neighbor.
It hit me then, the gravity of what was happening. My husband comes home, leaves his gun, and I’m like, “Show me how to use it.” He says, “Whatever happens, don’t open the door for anyone. And if you have to – shoot.”
I found two weights and two brooms and jammed them against the door. I remembered the Gulf War days, sealing every crack with duct tape, thinking it would save us. As if locking the safe room and being ready to shoot anyone who tries to get in will keep us safe.
So here I am, with weights against the door, my cousin screaming about her unlocked safe room door and broken window, and I have to keep it together for the kids. It’s all so surreal. And I realize: this is a coordinated assault, terrorists breaking through, kidnappings – my childhood nightmare coming true.
Months ago, our local security officers warned of the danger. Yet, the government and the army cut first response units and took away weapons, assuring us there was no chance of a multi-pronged attack. “Don’t worry,” they said, “We have the strongest army and the smartest fence.”
Now, as I tell you all this, the image of Gazan masses breaching the fence is stuck in my head, everything breached, and no sign of the Israeli army. They’re infiltrating communities everywhere, taking people, killing, burning – and no one is there to stop them.
I stayed with the kids in the safe room and heard the automatic gunfire nearby. I told them it was our soldiers, even though I knew it was the terrorists’ weapons. Each time the shots got closer, my hand went to the gun. I had no idea where my husband was. It felt like an out-of-body experience, telling myself a story to get through it, and wondering why, after so many hours, I heard no fighter planes; wondering how long it takes to fly in helicopters with soldiers.
I felt like a sitting duck, on borrowed time, just trying to survive – and no one coming.
The evacuation
After a sleepless night, on Sunday morning I decided to evacuate with the kids. I didn’t know that the entire area was still crawling with Hamas terrorists. I found out later that five people who escaped the party in Re’im were shot and killed by a terrorist squad waiting for them at Tsohar Junction. Three of them were my students.
I didn’t know all of this when I was in the safe room, and I told my husband, “You have to get us out of here.” But he insisted, “You’re not going out.” People were so scared that they began to self-evacuate, and they saw death everywhere – gruesome scenes with bodies of terrorists and people they knew, all shot.
While the kibbutzim were evacuated in an organized manner, we, from the moshavim, did what we always do – took care of ourselves. The army informed us they would escort us through the Philadelphi Corridor along the border with Egypt. We said goodbye to my husband at the moshav gate, and we drove to Kadesh Barnea and then on to friends in Hatzeva, in the Arava Region.
What did you pack to take with you?
I’ve been on the move for 18 years, whenever the region is under missile attack from Gaza. I have a checklist ready, like the one people make ahead of going into labor at the hospital. But this time, there was almost no time to pack. In one of the few quiet moments, I told the kids, ״Go and pack clothes for a few days. You have 10 minutes, grab as much as you can.״ They’re used to it, but we’ve never left in such a hurry.
I grabbed the essentials: clothes for three days, a toiletry bag, wallet, chargers, and my laptop because, as a teacher, I knew I’d need to conduct remote classes on Zoom.
Thankfully, there’s an amazing community in Hatzeva with a donation center, and gradually, we’re getting the essentials we’re missing. At first, it was hard for us to come and take things we needed. Once, we were the ones donating; now, we’re the ones in need.
How does daily life look?
I’m living from moment to moment; everything’s up in the air. For the first two weeks, we slept in a holiday cabin. Basically, a small box with an outdoor kitchen and a laundry spot outside. It’s also where all the donations, from dry goods to clothes and diapers, get dropped off.
The hospitality here is incredible. The folks in Hatzeva are working hard, and it’s no cakewalk for them either. Some men got called up for reserve duty, and their defense team is putting in extra hours. We don’t take anything for granted, and I’m deeply thankful for everything.
My top priority is my kids and making sure their needs are met. There are soldier-teachers around doing activities, but my 10-year-old son refuses to leave the house and make new friends. So, I found this artist in Hatzeva who opens her studio for him three times a week. Since he started going, he’s started smiling again. She’s a lifesaver, volunteering her time and effort.
About two weeks after the evacuation, I was asked to set up Nofey-Habsor High School in Ein Yahav, in the Central Arava. Thanks to some wonderful people and a lot of hard work, we pulled it off. These days, I’m managing the Eshkol Educational Center, trying to create some routine for the kids, offering emotional, social, and educational support as much as we can.
The Bedouins
We have Bedouin workers on the farm from Rahat who are like family to us – incredible people. At one point, we had 26 Thai workers, and our Bedouin work manager from Rahat, Osama Abu Madeyim, along with his brother, were supervising the work on the farm.
On that terrible Saturday, Osama came like he always did early in the morning. He dropped off his family members working with us in the fields and then left. But he didn’t make it far. A terrorist cell ambushed him, spraying his van with bullets. He managed to call his brother Shadi, who raced like crazy to be there as his brother took his last breath.
In the chaos, Shadi found a weapon left by one of the terrorists, started shooting, and took down five of them. Then he called my husband and said, “I’ll be back to work on the farm. I’ll bring my workers and my children to work there, and later I’ll avenge my brother’s murder.”
These days, he’s back on the farm. It’s our shared destiny with the Bedouins. When a missile hits Rahat, it doesn’t care if you’re Jewish or Arab.
Economic assistance from the State
Twice a day, we get hot meals delivered. Our council pays out 400 shekels per night for each displaced family, and that money goes straight to the places hosting us. So, it costs about 15,000 shekels per month for each displaced family. If we could get that sum directly, we could rent a place and live off the rest.
I suppose there might be compensation packages, but historically, they’ve been pretty lackluster and laughable.
The government’s priorities seem distorted. Apparently there are more pressing matters than getting money to the displaced – like, approving a 30-million-shekel budget during wartime to renovate the Prime Minister’s residence, pave another road in Judea and Samaria, or set up a Sukkah and security in Hawara for settlers.
Right now, we’re keeping the farm going, thanks to the workers from Rahat and the incredible help from volunteers across the country. The civilian mobilization has been nothing short of amazing.
What do you miss the most?
I miss my home, my garden, my routine, and most of all, my husband. I hardly get to see him. He’s constantly working on the farm, doing his best to salvage what he can.
The future
This situation is unprecedented. We’ve learned that communities nearest the fence — Kerem Shalom, Holit, Sufa, Nir Yitzhak, Nir Oz, Nirim, Ein Hashlosha, and Magen – won’t be returning in the coming year.
I recently visited friends in Eilat, fellow evacuees, and it was shocking. People there seemed to move around like zombies, lacking plans or purpose. The future for them seems so uncertain and bleak.
I keep hearing about housing solutions in buildings in Tel Aviv and Kiryat Gat, and I wonder how people who’ve spent their entire lives in the open will adjust to gray buildings in the heart of the city. Why wasn’t there an evacuation plan ready, kibbutz to kibbutz, moshav to moshav?
For years, we warned about the possibility of a coordinated assault, thinking it might come from the tunnels. Yet, as usual, authorities pushed our concerns aside, and it all hit us on October 7.
It’s time for someone to decide where our borders pass and what we want. Ordinary people just want to live. No one wants their children to grow into hatred and die in God’s name.
This column originally appeared in The Times of Israel’s Hebrew-language sister site, Zman Yisrael.
