Just meters from a burned-out house on Kibbutz Be’eri, Simon King is working on a patch of land.
It’s a sunny day and the surrounding streets are eerily quiet.
That silence is only interrupted by the sound of airstrikes echoing at close range.
In this community almost a year ago, 101 people were killed when gunmen from Hamas and other groups rampaged through the tree-lined streets of Be’eri, burning homes and shooting people indiscriminately. Another 30 residents and their families were taken to Gaza as hostages.
The survivors hid in special safe rooms throughout the day and late into the night, exchanging horrifying details of what was happening through WhatsApp groups, while trying to understand what was happening.
The kibbutz was a strong community, where people lived and acted as one. The neighbors were like an extended family. It is one of the few kibbutzim in Israel that still functions as a collective.
But now, after October 7, 2023, that group is divided, psychologically and physically.
“Everywhere”
Approximately one in ten of its inhabitants was murdered. Only a few of the survivors have returned to their homes.
Some travel to the kibbutz daily to work, as they cannot face the idea of spending the night there.
Many, after living for months in a hotel, live in prefabricated buildings in another kibbutz, located 40 kilometers away.
The community, built over a period of almost 80 years, has been tested like never before. And its future is uncertain.
There are reminders everywhere of those who didn’t survive, says Dafna Gerstner, who grew up in Be’eri and spent 19 terrifying hours on Oct. 7, locked in a safe room that was designed to protect residents from rocket attacks. .
“You look to the left and think, “Oh, that’s my friend, the one who lost her parents.” Then you look to the right and, again, you think: “That’s my other friend, the one who lost her father”; then, “That other one lost her mother.” And so on. “It’s everywhere.”
Inside Be’eri, which is surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire, you are never far from a completely burned or destroyed house, or an empty lot where there was a house that had to be demolished. after being attacked that day.
At first glance, some streets may appear almost intact, but if you look closely, even there you can see spray-painted marks on the walls. They were marked by military units on or after October 7.
The houses where people were murdered or kidnapped have black signs, with their names and photos, on the facades.
“Time stopped”
Among the rubble of a house that was burned, a game box rests on a coffee table. Next to it is a melted television remote control.
The rotten food is still in the refrigerator and the burning smell lingers.
“Time stopped in the house,” says Dafna, 40, as she digs through the ash-covered rubble.
She and her family had been playing that board game the day before the attacks.
Here, his disabled father and his Filipino caregiver hid for hours in the fortified safe room, while their house burned around them. Dafna says it’s a miracle they both survived.
His brother didn’t. He was a member of Be’eri’s emergency response squad and was killed in a shootout at the kibbutz’s dental clinic.
Dafna, who lives in Germany, was visiting those days and was staying at his house.
Remembering
Dozens of buildings in Be’eri are dotted with bullet holes, including the daycare center. The playground and petting zoo are empty. No children have returned and the animals have been sent to new homes.
However, the empty streets of the kibbutz sometimes come to life in a surprising way: guided tours are organized for visitors, who make donations.
Israeli soldiers and some civilians from Israel and abroad come to see the destroyed houses and hear stories of the devastation to understand what happened.
Two of the volunteers leading the guided tours, Rami Gold and Simon King, say they are determined to ensure that what happened here is remembered.
Simon, 60, admits it can be a difficult process.
“There are a lot of mixed feelings and (visitors) don’t really know what to ask, but they can see, hear and smell. It is a very intense emotional experience.”
Rami, 70, says that these tours he takes are often followed by sleepless nights. Each visit, he says, takes him back to October 7, 2023.
He is one of the few who moved back to Be’eri after the attacks.
And guided tours are not everyone’s cup of tea.
“At one point, it looked as if someone had taken over the kibbutz; everyone was there,” says Dafna.
But Simon says those stories have to be told. “Some don’t like it because it’s their home and they don’t want people poking around there,” he says. “But you have to get the message across. Otherwise, it will be forgotten.”
At the same time, both he and Rami indicate that they are looking to the future and describe themselves as “irresponsible optimists.”
They continue watering lawns and mending fences, amidst the destruction, while others build new houses to replace the destroyed ones.
Simon describes that rebuilding process as a therapy.
The return to that day
Founded in 1946, Be’eri is one of 11 Jewish communities in this region that were established before the creation of the State of Israel.
It was known for its left-wing views and many of its residents believed in and advocated for peace with the Palestinians.
After the attacks, many residents were moved to a hotel by the Dead Sea, the Hotel David, about a 90-minute drive away.
After the attacks, I witnessed their trauma myself.
Shocked guests gathered in the lobby and other common areas. They were trying to make sense of what had happened, who they had lost. They did it in low-voice conversations. Some children clung to their parents as they spoke.
Even today, they say, the talks have not advanced.
“Every person I talk to about Be’eri always comes back to this day. Each conversation revisits the topic and its aftereffects. We are always talking about it over and over, over and over again,” says Shir Guttentag.
Like her friend Dafna, Shir took refuge in her safe room that day and tried to calm terrified neighbors on the WhatsApp group, while Hamas men stormed the kibbutz, shooting residents and setting houses on fire.
Shir had to twice dismantle the furniture barricade he had set up at the entrance to his house to let in neighbors who needed to hide.
He told his children, “It’s okay, everything is going to be okay,” as they waited to be rescued.
When they were finally escorted to safety, he looked at the ground, not wanting to see the remains of his community.
The move
In the months that followed while he was at the Dead Sea hotel, Shir says he had difficulties when people began to leave: some went to homes in other parts of the country or to stay with families, others sought to escape their memories by going to the foreign.
Each departure was like “another breakup, another goodbye,” he says.
It is no longer rare to see someone crying or looking sad among the grieving residents of Be’eri.
“In normal times, it would have been like, ‘What happened? Are you OK?’ Nowadays, everyone can cry and no one asks why they cry,” says Shir.
She and her daughters, along with hundreds of Be’eri survivors, have moved into new prefabricated homes paid for by the Israeli government on a barren tract of land on another kibbutz, Hatzerim, about a 40-minute drive from Be’eri.
I was there on moving day.
It seems a world away from Be’eri’s well-tended gardens, although grass has now been planted around the neighborhood.
When Shir, a single mother, took her daughters – aged nine and six – to their new bungalow, she told me that she felt her stomach churning with excitement and nerves.
She tested the door to the safe room, where her daughters will sleep every night, and noticed that it seemed heavier than the door to Be’eri’s room. “I don’t know if it’s bulletproof. I hope so,” he said.
She decided not to bring many of the belongings she has back home in Be’eri because she wants to keep her home there as it was and remind herself that she will return one day.
“They destroyed us”
The mass move to Hatzerim came after the community put it to a vote, as happens with all important kibbutz decisions.
It is estimated that around 70% of Be’eri survivors will live there for the time being. About half of the kibbutz residents have already moved in, but more homes are on the way.
The trip from Hatzerim to Be’eri is shorter than from the hotel, and many people make that trip every day to work in one of the kibbutz’s businesses, as they did before.
Shir travels to Be’eri to work at the veterinary clinic, but she can’t imagine living there again just yet.
“I don’t know what has to happen, but it would have to be something drastic for me to feel safe again.”
At noon, Be’eri’s dining room is filled with people who gather to eat together.
Shir, like many others, has reluctantly applied for a gun license, not wanting to be caught off guard again.
“It’s for my daughters and me, because that day I had nothing,” he says.
His mother’s long-time companion was murdered that day. When they talk about it, their mother says, “They destroyed us.”
A principle in doubt
Residents say they have had support from their neighbors throughout the year, but individual trauma has also tested a community that has historically functioned as a collective.
Be’eri’s motto is an adaptation of a phrase by Karl Marx: “Each one gives what he can and each receives what he needs.” But now it is difficult to live by these words.
Many working-age residents work at Be’eri’s successful printing press and other small businesses on the kibbutz. Profits are pooled and people receive accommodation and other services based on their individual circumstances.
However, the decision of some people not to return to work there has undermined this principle of working and living in community.
And if some residents decide that they can never return to Be’eri, that could, in turn, create new problems.
Many have little experience of non-community living and would struggle financially if they lived independently.
“People are very angry”
The October 7 attack also silenced calls for peace.
The kibbutz used to have a fund to support Gazans. Some residents also helped arrange medical treatment for Gaza residents in Israeli hospitals, community members say.
Now, among some, strong opinions are emerging that oppose that and are expressed in person and on social networks.
“They (Gaza residents) will never accept that we are here. “It’s us or them,” says Rami.
Several people mention the murder of resident Vivian Silver, one of Israel’s best-known peace advocates.
“Right now, people are very angry,” says Shir.
“People still want to live in peace but, for now, I can’t see any companion on the other side.”
“I don’t like to think in terms of hate and anger, it’s not who I am, but I can’t disconnect from what happened that day.”
Shir wears a chain engraved with the portrait of her lifelong friend Carmel Gat, who was taken hostage in Be’eri that day.
Their biggest dream was for them to be reunited, but on September 1, Carmel’s body was found along with five other hostages.
The Israel Defense Forces claimed they had been killed by Hamas just hours before a planned rescue attempt.
Hamas said the hostages were killed in airstrikes, but an autopsy of the returned bodies concluded they had all been shot multiple times at close range.
“I don’t want revenge”
The inhabitants of Be’eri continue to wait and trust in the return of other kidnapped people.
So far, 18 have returned alive, along with two bodies, while 10 remain in Gaza, of whom at least three are believed to be alive.
Behind Dafna’s father’s house, Yuval Haran, 37, stands in front of the house where his father was murdered and many family members were taken hostage on October 7.
His brother-in-law Tal remains kidnapped in Gaza.
“Until I return, my clock still shows October 7th. I don’t want revenge, I just want my family back, I just want to have a calm and peaceful life again,” says Yuval.
In total, some 1,200 people were killed in southern Israel on October 7, and 251 were taken hostage to Gaza.
Since then, more than 41,000 people have been killed in the Israeli military operation in Gaza, according to the Hamas-run Health Ministry.
Hundreds of people, combatants and civilians, have also been killed in Lebanon in Israeli airstrikes against the armed group Hezbollah, in an escalation of their long-running conflict.
“I believe that trauma is for life.”
Residents of Be’eri say that before October 7, despite their proximity to the Gaza fence, they always felt safe, with great faith in the Israeli military system.
But that faith has now been shaken. “I have less security and less confidence,” says Shir.
Relive the events in your dreams.
“I wake up and remind myself that everything is over, but I think the trauma is for life. “I don’t know if I will ever be able to feel completely safe again.”
This summer, Rami and Simon also took on the sad task of digging graves for Be’eri’s dead, who have just been moved to the kibbutz from cemeteries elsewhere in Israel.
“After the 7th (of October), this area was a military zone, we couldn’t bury them here,” says Rami, while looking at the graves, with a rifle hanging from the body.
Simon says this stirs up strong feelings, “but in the end they are back home.”
Each time a person is returned, the kibbutz holds a second funeral, which many residents attend.
Shir, in the temporary settlement of Hatzerim, says that for now she is drawing strength from the community around her.
“We are not complete, but I hope we are.”
“It’s a grieving community, sadder and angrier, but still a strong community.”
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