Reflections on the October 7 massacre - opinion

“Mami, is the war over yet?” Sara, my 10-year-old daughter, asked me after dinner a few days ago.

She tried to sound easy and chill, but I sensed a nervousness in her tone. She hasn’t been sleeping in her bed since we came back from Italy at the beginning of November. Every night she wanders around the house when it comes to bedtime, looking for a place to park herself for the night, as she refuses to sleep in her room.

“For goodness sake, Sara, there are kids who are hostages in Gaza right now,” I feel like screaming at her when she drives me mad at bedtime; “you had ‘only’ one siren experience.” And then I hear myself and almost laugh in shame.

Look what we have become.

Revisiting Kfar Aza after the October 7 massacre

A week after I landed in Israel from Italy on November 2, I was invited to join a group of journalists and dignitaries to visit Kfar Aza, and without even thinking twice, I answered yes. We left at 7 a.m. A fancy little van came to pick me up. I had three big bags of fresh cookies made by my 15-year-old daughter and her friends for the soldiers we were going to meet there.

In the van, those who knew each other hugged and kissed, excited as if we were going on an adventurous trip. 

The temperature rose as we kept driving south. We were handed bulletproof vests with the famous PRESS sticker on the front and a helmet that didn’t fit over my wig. It was one or the other. “Is it better to be safe or tzanua? [religiously modest]” I asked as we all laughed. 

As we drove toward our destination, the roads started to look deserted; only army vehicles passed us, and there were stop signs every few meters.

The once cheerful and picturesque village of Kfar Aza is now a heavily fortified military encampment. Only authorized personnel, such as the army or individuals with special permits, are allowed entry. We got out of the van and slowly adjusted to the warm, humid weather. I felt sweat trickle down my back. My phone stayed on until they told us to turn them off.

We were met by an army guide who introduced himself in perfect English, and we were surrounded by soldiers.

The guide asked us to follow him, and then turned to us and stopped. He asked us to close our eyes and imagine it was 6:30 on the sunny Saturday morning of October 7.

“Now, let’s go in,” he said.

I OPEN my eyes and step back in time. 

As we start making our way along the narrow path between small houses with tags in front of them with the names of families who have probably gone forever, chills run down my spine. We walk slowly; his voice leads and carries us with stories from Kfar Aza. 

“Here lived the Kotch family, who had moved from America a few years ago and settled in this house in front of you. This kite was found in their dining room on the floor; it was to be used on that Saturday for a kite festival. They were going to fly the kite toward Gaza as a peace gesture. The family was found all together hugging each other in the safe room; they were all killed. You can peek into the safe room.” 

I make my way to the little window and push my nose between the blinds. Tears start rolling down my cheeks. Blood on the walls, kids’ shoes and clothes, mattresses with blood stains.

I am not sure I can do this. I feel almost as if I am intruding on a family meeting, even though no one is there. I turn my face away and see another house a few meters away. The whole front big window is gone, yet it looks as if someone just left the house for a few minutes and is coming right back. The fridge is open, the cookbooks are all lined up nicely, bags from the groceries are on the table, one chair is turned on the floor, and dishes are in the sink – it looks like a scene of an “interrupted breakfast.” There’s a bottle of milk on the side of the sink.

I break down. I sit on the doorstep and cry. 

This is not a war zone; it is not a concentration camp – this is a beautiful home. It could be mine; it could be yours. It feels as if you still see the people living there – a woman cooking while leafing through a cookbook, and kids eating cereal – you can almost hear them. Again, I feel like I am spying on them, even though they are not there. I feel them watching me and asking me, “Why are you here in our house? What do you want?”

I take out my Tehilim and feel like praying. Help me, God, for being alive and witnessing this horror and feeling so helpless. Forgive me, dear family, for peeking into your house and wondering how you looked, what happened here, and hearing your screams, even though I am surrounded by silence.

This is harsh.

THE ARMY guide then shows us a small baby bed with wheels – a typical kibbutz item. Usually, it is full of kids laughing as they are wheeled around the kibbutz. Now it is full of bullets.

The village becomes more broken and damaged as we explore further, a stark reminder of the violence and destruction that occurred there. The burnt houses and bullet-ridden walls serve as proof of the conflict. 

There are bicycles lying on the ground by almost every house, baby swings slowly moving in the light breeze, along with trampolines, slides, and roller skates. It looks like a school break but with no school and no kids – yet you can hear them. I feel like I am going mad. The place is so silent, yet there’s so much noise. I’m almost dizzy from the sounds I hear in my head.

Nothing prepares you for this. 

The trees are full of fruits needing to be picked; so many have fallen and smashed to the ground and are now rotten. The smell in the air is so overwhelming that it enters your soul; it is like nothing I have ever smelt before – I cannot describe it.

We gather around a small tree that offers us some shade, and we all drink from our water bottles and wash the sweat off our faces. We cannot look at each other, almost embarrassed by the extraordinary amount of pain surrounding us. The guide takes out a big folder and starts showing us some pictures: an older man, still smiling, lying on the floor with his throat cut.

I can’t. 

I get up and move a little away from the group when suddenly I see birds flying and chirping. Even the guide stops and looks up. “It’s the first time I’m finally hearing birds here,” he says. “They are coming back; until now, the smell of burning was too strong.” The presence of birds returning to the village gives us a sense of hope amid the destruction.

I sit on a bench to breathe for a moment when suddenly the guide screams at me, “Be careful; there’s a flag there.” It’s a Palestinian flag, and there’s one boot that belonged to a terrorist, along with a backpack. I quickly get up, as if it hurts to sit there.

THE DEPTH of suffering experienced by the people in this community is unimaginable. 

The vivid details shockingly illustrate the extent of their ordeal. Families, wearing pajamas and mere moments away from enjoying their morning coffee, suffered the unspeakable horror of being ruthlessly slaughtered. The innocence and vulnerability of the children were violated as they were snatched away from their beds. The sanctity of the women’s own homes, where they felt secure with their loved ones, became the backdrop for unimaginable acts of violence and rape. 

I hug my new friend, a journalist from Venezuela. She’s crying too. “I am not Jewish,” she says, “but this is horrible; I feel my soul is Jewish today,” as she holds my hand.

As our tour comes to an end, we are led to a nearby military base that also fell victim to the brutal attacks that took place on that fateful Saturday morning. The base, which was meant to provide safety and security, was not spared from the horrors that ensued. As we approach the base, we can’t help but feel a sense of solemnity and reverence for the brave men and women who have sacrificed their lives in service of their country, and for the families who have been left to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of such senseless violence.

Soldiers who fell trying to protect us; civilians – children and women – have been wiped away or taken as hostages to Gaza.

It is unreal.

TWO MONTHS have passed since I visited Kfar Aza, and only now can I sit and write about it. 

Nowadays, it has become somewhat of a trend for influential figures to visit the kibbutzim that were targeted on October 7 as a show of respect. However, it is imperative for everyone, regardless of their religion or nationality, to personally witness the tremendous suffering endured by these resilient people. 

The world must comprehend the barbarity and cruelty exhibited by Hamas, a group that prides itself on causing destruction and annihilating anything beautiful and vibrant. Their disregard for human life is evident in their actions, and the world needs to recognize this. This conflict has nothing to do with territorial disputes; it is rooted in a deep-seated hatred for humanity itself.

Kfar Aza, a small kibbutz, is now etched into the history of Israel. Once flourishing with crops and vibrant with life, it now carries the weight of its troubled past. The scars left behind by attacks and assaults serve as constant reminders of the fragility and volatility of our existence. However, they also galvanize us, fueling our determination to protect our land and ensure that the horrors witnessed will never be repeated.

To that end, the soldiers who are fighting this war emerge as the heroes of our story. Their vigilance, bravery, and sacrifice are woven into the fabric of our daily lives and have become an unwavering source of inspiration.

But amid the bravery and courage, there are also the haunting images of the hostages – innocent lives interrupted by the forces of malevolence. Their stories echo through our streets, serving as a solemn reminder of the fragility of life and freedom and the need for everlasting stability for our nation and land.

Kfar Aza, the Supernova music festival, the soldiers, the heroes, the hostages – all have become an integral part of me, and I am reminded every day of the importance of cherishing each moment and working toward a future where our silent prayers are answered, our enemy will be defeated forever, and unity among all of us will prevail.

“The war is almost over, darling,” I answer my Sara. “Go to sleep.” As those who survived say, “We will dance again; we will live again.”

Am Yisrael chai! 