Last week, my husband and I, together with Houston visitors Clive and Linda Shkedy, had the opportunity to volunteer with Grilling for Soldiers, an organization founded by Mr. Elliot Auerbacher, who immigrated to Israel from Englewood, New Jersey.
Grilling for Soldiers coordinates elaborate barbecues on bases in order to “serve those who serve,” as the organization’s motto goes. The menu, which is financed by donations from abroad, is totally first class: giant burgers, smoked brisket, and entrecôte steaks. No chicken or hot dogs at these barbecues as those are regularly served on base. The aim of Grilling for Soldiers, Auerbacher maintains, is to give our dedicated soldiers the equivalent of a night out in a fine restaurant.
On our way to the large army base in Israel’s South, we drove through Otef Aza (the Gaza Envelope, as it’s called). I hadn’t come to this area since my gap year on a Young Judaea year course in the late 1980’s, when I lived at Kibbutz Alumim for several months. At that time, the Gaza Strip was under IDF administration and the Gush Katif settlements inside the Strip marked the effective border.
Driving this route these many years later with Google Maps to guide me, I recognized the old familiar names of places the bus would pass on the way back to Alumim after a weekend away from the kibbutz: Saad, Mefalsim, Kfar Aza. Now these places—and many more—map a trail of horror and tears.
I was surprised to see the proximity of this “envelope” to what has been hostile territory since the disengagement in 2005. But I didn’t realize just how close the distance was until we stopped at Kibbutz Be’eri. Having made no prior arrangements for a visit, we didn’t know if we’d even be able to enter the kibbutz. By pure luck, we were not turned away, and surprisingly, we were even offered a private tour of the area with Lior, one of Be’eri’s miraculous survivors of the October 7 carnage.
LIOR SHOWED us the rows of formerly white attached homes where he and his fellow kibbutzniks lived, about 100 meters or less from the Gaza border. Being closest to the fence, Lior’s block was the first one attacked. He showed us the exact point of entry where the enemy penetrated the fence with a bulldozer, allowing for the easy infiltration of the Gazan terrorists.
He then took us to his home, or rather the blackened shell of his home that was set in flames nearly throughout. On the morning of October 7, Lior and his two sons entered the home’s safe room when they heard the rocket sirens. The doors of the safe rooms don’t lock because they’re intended to protect from crashing missiles, not shooting terrorists.
Realizing they were under terrorist and not rocket attack, Lior and his sons held the door tight from the inside for over sixteen hours, taking turns to save themselves and each other. When they heard the terrorists nearby, they all held the door together.
When the terrorist chatter would subside, they held it one at a time. They placed towels on the floor on which they urinated to prevent the smoke from entering their “safe space.” Most of Lior’s neighbors perished in the pogrom; Lior and his sons’ lives were spared.
That disaster has befallen Jews throughout our history and our exile is horrible, but not surprising. The Jewish people are clearly no strangers to persecution and its violent consequences. But the fact that the October 7 pogrom took place in our homeland, on our native soil, under our sovereignty, and with our having our own defense forces, I find exceptionally unbearable.
Walking through the remnants of Be’eri, one sees images of Poland or Ukraine—Cossacks or Nazi collaborators on a rampage through a defenseless Jewish village. I’m not being rhetorical when I ask “how could this happen in the land of Israel, in the State of Israel, in our days and times?”
Soldiers showing their appreciation
WE COULDN’T stay longer at Be’eri to hear more of Lior’s brutal retelling of the events of October 7 because we had to arrive at the base in time to set up the barbecue for soldiers. Thankfully, after leaving the horror of Be’eri, we were able to end the journey south on a much higher note with the gregarious soldiers who so much appreciated our coming to serve them dinner. We kept saying, “No! We thank you for protecting us!”
Before dinner, the commander of the unit gave a rousing speech to his troops. My Hebrew isn’t perfect (yet), but I can translate roughly what he said. He told the soldiers that he was there for all their needs, no matter how small. He said that if they had any problems with their spouses, their kids, or with making payments of any kind, he wanted to help them and he had the resources to do so with funds provided by donations.
He also told them that they were all responsible for each other, not just on the battlefield but on the base. He wanted to make sure that each one looked out for the other. This unit was family.
It is the leadership of such a commander and others like him all throughout this great land, together with the inspiring resilience of survivors like Lior and the tireless commitment of volunteers like Elliot Auerbacher, that make Israel such a meaningful place to live. It is true, as I’ve said before, that there is a great sense of heaviness here, as I witnessed most directly in Be’eri this week, but there is also tremendous light and hope for the future, as I experienced with our brave soldiers on the base.
Am Yisrael Chai.
The writer is a recent new immigrant from Houston, Texas. Formerly a professor of English as a second language to international students at Houston Community College and University of Houston, she is currently a lecturer of English at Reichman and Bar-Ilan universities.