I am a member of Kibbutz Nahal Oz, and, as of October 8, the head of Nahal Oz’s community. I’m 55 years old, born and raised on the kibbutz that is located a mere 800 meters away from the Gaza Strip. My childhood was never marked by fear as I roamed around the lush, beautiful kibbutz, barefoot and carefree.
As a mother, I spent my years living in constant dissonance – torn between my will to give my children safety, freedom, and a happy childhood, and the ever-present dread that something bad was bound to happen; that the sound of sirens would catch them off-guard on their way to school, on the soccer field, or on going to visit a friend.
On October 7, everything I wanted to give them was torn to shreds. Not only for me but for all other kibbutz members who survived the terrible massacre. And we have been living in utter chaos ever since, together and individually.
I head a homeless, displaced community with Berry Meirovitz, the commander of our alert squad who fought to protect the kibbutz on October 7 and partner in managing the community.
Mourning in Kibbutz Nahal Oz
We are still mourning over the loss of 13 of our members and two foreign workers who lost their lives simply because they earned their keep working at Nahal Oz. Our community aches with the continued absence of Tsachi Idan and Omri Miran, 238 days since this war started. How is that even possible?
Tsachi and Omri also dreamed of a safe and happy home for their children. They dreamed about a tight-knit community, about sitting on their porch with a cup of coffee or a can of beer, about going the play basketball, about a child laughing on the swing set, and of a life of love, light, and beauty.
Tsachi and Omri, whose wives, Gali Idan and Lishi Lavi Miran, have spent more than 200 nights sleeping alone in their beds, wondering if their beloveds are cold, if they ate anything today, if their spirit has been broken.
Gali and Lishi have been trying to find the words to explain to their sons and daughters why their father isn’t here, why is he not calling, why we don’t know when and how he’ll come back home.
D’voraleh, Tsachi’s mother, and Dani, Omri’s father have been traveling all over, meeting whoever is willing to hear their pleas, Tsachi and Omri’s unheard pleas, and have lost track of time worrying about the fate of their sons.
Those families whose lives stopped entirely, who are haunted by one goal, and one goal only – to bring them and the rest of the hostages back home, alive, and immediately.
Two weeks ago, we were commemorating our national memorial days. Painful, shattering, and thought-provoking days that took us back to the time of the Holocaust, and had us recalling the darkest hours of the Jewish people’s history. It makes me want to say that there will not be a second Holocaust for us, or so I hope.
Nevertheless, when was the last time Jews sat together for hours in hiding, without food or water, in mortal fear, silencing their children’s cries in?
When was the last time whole families were tormented by a complete lack of information on the fate of their loved ones?
And when was the last time Jews were trapped without any connection to the outside world, without any hope on the horizon?
All of that is happening to the very state that was established to make sure nothing like this would ever happen again.
After Holocaust Memorial Day came Remembrance Day, with its own set of painful questions to ponder.
Where did the families of the hostages who had been killed turn to, when they were unable to bury their loved ones?
Without a tombstone, a marker, or even a grave? Who came to their aid? Who hugged them? Who among our leaders provided them with strength during their darkest hour? Who among our leaders looked them in the eye and bore witness to their pain? Their disappointment? Their loss?
Who prayed alongside the families of the hostages? Who can promise them that they’re fighting with all their might to bring them home?
This inability to rescue the hostages is a travesty that must be taken care of immediately. Why is it taking so long for a country to bring its people home to their families? Every day that passes without them is a testament to the state’s inadequacy. Only after they are home can we start talking about victory.
People are discussing the price we will pay – but we have already paid, dearly, on October 7. The day when we lost so many boys and girls, teenagers, soldiers, elderly people; people who were among the best this country had to offer. The one thing we can do now is bring our loved ones back, and with it, achieve some comfort.
It is a time for compassion, for solidarity – for us to witness the suffering of the hostages’ families, to listen to their cries for help, and to the sound of their ever-ticking clock. To open up to the pain and misery, so that we can end it.
This is the time of the harvest. Shavuot, the last holiday in the Jewish calendar, is upon us.
And in the fields of Nahal Oz the Combine harvester collects the wheat at the very edge of the border with Gaza, on the very last patch of Israeli earth. We have sown the wheat in autumn; in the winter, rain fell upon the land; and even after the spring has brought us its greenery, and summer has come to ripen the fields – Tsachi and Omri have still not yet returned to us.
One day follows the next, and I’m still waking up to a community that is left unwhole, still going to bed knowing that Tsachi and Omri aren’t here.
Two men who were taken from their homes so cruelly, whose families cannot live normally, yet still get up each and every morning with unfathomable strength, to fight, scream, and give a voice to Tsachi and Omri whose voices are lost deep in the tunnels of Gaza, so close to home yet still so far.
It is unimaginable, unforgivable, and unbearably painful.
We have no other country. We love you, our homeland – please come back to us.
Tsachi and Omri, hold on, we are all waiting for you, all of us at Nahal Oz.
The writer is the head of Kibbutz Nahal Oz’s community.