I recently returned from a synagogue mission to Israel. Before our departure, I asked our 20 travelers why they were going. “I want to be able to bear witness,” one of them responded, “so first I have to be a witness.”
Good answer. It is difficult — and presumptuous — for those who live an ocean away to feel like we have a complete understanding of what has transpired in Israel and what Israel should do next. And yet, few of us can resist the temptation to cast judgment, offer advice, render a verdict on Israel’s now four-month war on Hamas. By visiting Israel, even for a visit of just three days, we put away our certainty in order to listen and learn — to be witnesses.
We witnessed Israel’s extraordinary civic spirit — heroic volunteers tending to the material and psychological needs of Israelis who lost family, homes and livelihoods in the wake of the Hamas attacks of Oct. 7, offering what the government remains unequipped to provide. And we witnessed the enduring trauma of families of hostages and survivors of the attacks.
The story of one family, who thankfully did not suffer the way others did — none of them were taken captive, none of them killed — was especially vital in helping us understand the larger picture of Israel after Oct. 7.
Our conversation was with a young husband and father I’ll call Ariel to respect his privacy. We met him in the town of Ashalim, south of Beersheba. Last August, Ariel, his wife and two children joined Kibbutz Nir Yitzhak, a thriving community on the Gaza border where they moved to build a life. Of the risks living so close to Gaza, Ariel explained, “We knew there was a chance we would face occasional rocket fire. But we also knew how to handle it.” What occurred the morning of Oct. 7, though, was beyond their imagination.
At 6:30, they were awakened by the familiar sound of the Iron Dome detonating one Hamas rocket and then a second. So they went to their bomb shelter, as they had done before, assuming this was just another volley of fire that would last a few days and then stop. But then they began to receive WhatsApp videos of terrorists in Sderot, then at another kibbutz, and then at one even closer. At 9 a.m., they learned that Hamas fighters were inside Nir Yitzhak, and Ariel, an experienced military veteran, was afraid like he had never been before.
Next came what in Israel has come to be called “the battle for the doorknob,” the tug of war between terrorists attempting to enter a shelter and those inside struggling to keep them out. Bomb shelters are not built to be locked from within. So Ariel blocked the door with furniture. And there his family remained until 10:00 that night when the army finally regained control of the kibbutz. Six members of the kibbutz were killed on the day of the attack. Eight people were taken hostage, two of whom were released before crossing into Gaza and three let go during the ceasefire in November.
The next day, the survivors of Nir Yitzhak were sent to Eilat, where they lived in a hotel for two months. Neither Ariel nor his wife could work; there was no space for the children to play; and there was no school.
A month ago, the family decided to find a place to live where they could reclaim some measure of normalcy. So they moved to Ashalim. There the community embraced them, providing a house and the necessities to start over.
Ariel related the journey of the last three months thoughtfully. He spoke of friends Hamas murdered; of how he wanted to be fighting in Gaza, but knew his place was with his family. He recalled how he had been raised on Israel’s political left to believe that peace with the Palestinians was not only possible but necessary, but that now he was less convinced. If he sounded disillusioned, he was, he explained, more realistic. He acknowledged the tragedy of innocents dying in Gaza, but “there are also a lot of people there glad for our deaths here,” he said.
Will he return home to Kibbutz Nir Yitzhak? “We think about it,” he answered. “But we’re not sure.” The modern Zionist enterprise was undertaken so that Jews would be safe in their homes and never again be uprooted. So the fact that more than 200,000 Israelis have been internally displaced since the war began is especially jarring to the Israeli psyche.
Americans need to remember that their opinions are formed through a lens, thousands of miles away
Americans, including American Jews, need not approve of every action of Israel’s government. Polls show most Israelis don’t. Indeed we witnessed intense anger at the government for its lack of preparedness before the attack (resulting, some claimed, from divisions sown by the proposed judicial overhaul), and at Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu for his failure to articulate a vision of what comes next in Gaza and for prioritizing “complete victory” over negotiating the hostages’ safe return. Israelis have a right to be critical. So do we.
But our criticism should be tempered by appropriate humility given our distance from Hamas rockets, and it should not obscure these truths: Hamas struck Israel on Oct. 7, breaking a ceasefire already in place; Hamas, not Israel, is the party with genocide in its charter; and if Hamas cared anything for the Palestinian people, its operatives would come out of their tunnels and surrender instead of using civilians as human shields.
Certainly Israel must do all it can to protect innocent Palestinians from further harm. Gaza is a humanitarian catastrophe. But to insist, as many have, that Israel halt its campaign before Hamas is either sufficiently incapacitated or removed from power is to disregard the trauma Israelis have endured, and to ask that Israel continue to abide a threat on its border endangering every Israeli and leaving large swaths of a small country uninhabitable.
Time and again, the Israelis we met thanked us for making the journey. “It takes courage to come here,” they said. “We are so glad you did. You remind us we are not alone.”
Israel will persevere. It is said its people are like the sabra fruit — tough on the outside, and tenacious survivors. And that determination is carrying them through now. But to visit Israel today — or to hear Israelis speak when they come to America — is to witness the tenderness within, where the wounds of Oct. 7 still cause great pain. And if we are to bear witness, we need to be attentive to these wounds.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.