One Flag, One Family: One Story

As some of you may know, I took a little trip last week…

At the vigil at B’nai Jeshurun on October 8th there was mention of a possible clergy mission. Well, okay, it was a ”rabbi” mission…but no one knew when or where or how. Or how quickly. When Rabbi Vaisberg asked me a few days later if I’d be interested in going, I didn’t hesitate. As the medieval poet Yehuda HaLevi expressed, “my heart was in the East.”

We would leave on October 30th, spend 36 hours on the ground and return home on Thursday the 2nd. Suddenly, the concepts of bomb shelters, safe rooms, and tzevah adom — red alerts — became very real. 

So. The first question. Why did I go?

I’ve asked myself this more than once, both before and after. What could we offer in person that couldn’t be done with email and zoom and just sending donations? In this high tech world, what was the value of spending 22 hours in flight for two days in Israel? 

Presence. Showing up. Bearing witness. Unity.

After landing at an empty Ben Gurion, we boarded a bus for Mitzpe Ramon, a small town in the Negev at the edge of the Machtesh Ramon, a distinctive box canyon. This area is usually full of backpackers, hikers, and nature-lovers. Right now, the hotels and hostels are full of evacuees from Kibbutz Erez as well as other kibbutzim and moshavim that were attacked on October 7th. 

Kibbutz Erez sits just north of Gaza. 

After the Second Intifada, when rockets started to fly, the Greater MetroWest leadership decided that it wanted to forge a strong connection with Israelis living on the front lines and chose Erez. 

The dining room of the hostel was now a cafeteria and meeting room. The sidewalks had bags of donations along with children’s bikes and toys. The squeals and cries of toddlers in the newly created gan echoed throughout. We had a typical Israeli breakfast of vegetables and cheese on a patio overlooking the majestic canyon. There, we began to hear the tale of the miracles which saved Erez. 

We listened to Kibbutz member Sagit Levi. She was awakened on the morning of the 7th by red alert sirens blaring. She dressed and sent a note to her emergency squad to see who was on the kibbutz. Then she went to open the situation room across from her house. Her husband said to her, “What are you doing?” Typically, they would not open this room just for the now-ubiquitous rocket fire. She said it was a gut instinct to open it that morning. 

Opening her door, she heard shooting from Erez Crossing just south of the kibbutz. The gunshots were close. They didn’t know it yet, but the terrorists were already over the Crossing. She got to the situation room, opened the door, and the squad showed up including Amir Naim, a combat engineer by training who lived on the kibbutz. He took the emergency team, and they jumped into action. Though few, these extra moments of preparation would be vital to the survival of the kibbutz and its ability to fend off the terrorists at the gates. 

She sent a notification to the entire kibbutz, “Do not leave your homes. Lock yourselves in.” As gunfire drew closer, they got word that a sniper had hit Amir. All this time Sagit was trying to get in touch with the local regional council for help. No answer. She tried to get in touch with the Army. No one came. “We’re being shot at but there’s no one that we can talk to,” she said. 

Soon another member of the squad, Dani, was shot in the jaw. She called Magein David Adom once, twice, but no answer. Finally she got through and they told her, “An ambulance is on its way.” She couldn’t believe it. “Where is this ambulance? They’re going to shoot at it!” 

Then they said, “There’s no authorization to come to you. We can’t come to you.” “Where is the army? We need helicopters!” But there was no Army. “Atem levad,” they said.

.אתם לבד 

You are alone. 

That’s when she understood they were left to take care of themselves.  

A volunteer ER nurse and squads from neighboring kibbutzim came with more ammunition. They were able to hold off the terrorists. But the wounded kept flowing into the situation room. They had no IVs, no oxygen. One resident who worked in a hospital had some medical supplies and was able to bring them. A paramedic from Habonim Moshav came to try and help Amir — but it was too late, he was gone. There was still hope for Dani if they could get him to an ER. So the volunteer nurse, Liora, took two of the injured in her own car and sped away under fire to Barzelai Hospital in Ashkelon. 

After two hours, eight people from the Shin Bet came but they didn’t know what was going on. They didn’t bring clips or magazines, just single bullets. The residents had to fill clips for them by hand. They fought for hours. “We were totally alone. We had no equipment. We had no capacity. We managed to save ourselves.”

Five minutes. Five minutes to open up the situation room or the kibbutz would have been subjected to horrors we have heard and seen at other kibbutzim. Five minutes that were a miracle. 

The sense of abandonment by the Army was a recurring theme throughout the visit. Over and over, we heard the question “Where was the Army?” The faith in the government’s ability to protect them is shattered. This is an earthquake. Israelis have always relied on the army. Because as one kibbutz member pointed out, “Who is the army? The army is us! It’s us.” From where will their protection come now? 

A local mayor, Shai Ajaj spoke of local emergency squads being formed and trained at the grassroots level. Cities and small villages are arming themselves and training for the next incursion with the knowledge they may be on their own and not knowing for how long. 

Where was the Army? Why were battalions removed? Where were the helicopters? Where was the surveillance? There will have to be a thorough investigation into the multiple security failures. But for now, there is pain and insecurity around returning to Erez. Many residents would return tomorrow. Some may return later. And some never will. Yet still they believe in one another. They believe in community. 

According to Michal Tzur, director of the Greater MetroWest Israel office, living in Erez was like living in a bubble, a community of people believing in peace and coexistence. “I thought people in Gaza were like me. People who just wanted to raise their children and live in peace. Today I don’t know.” Their faith in a peaceful solution to the issues is gone. As the chair of the kibbutz, Amnon Zarka told us, “I hate to say it. It is a zero sum game now. Us or them.” 

We Jews are a people of stories. This was but one–-we heard several over the course of those 36 hours. Because we are also a people of listening. Shema Yisrael. Hear, O Israel. Our role as clergy was to listen and be present, to bear witness. Now my responsibility is to transmit their stories to you.

Elie Wiesel wrote, “If we cannot transmit we are dead. The difference between death and life is that life transmits, death stops.” 

Everywhere we went, every single person we met wanted to tell their story. Injured soldiers. Hospital staff. Volunteers. Evacuees. Families of the hostages. Psychologists on the front lines. In telling their stories of survival, escape, heroism, grief, and trauma, there is a way forward. In the telling, there is healing and there is strength. The very survival of the Jewish people is and has always been about passing on what we have heard. Hearing, remembering, and sharing their story is nothing less than a sacred mission. 

We are one family. We are one people. 

Everywhere we went, Israelis wanted to know how WE were. As much as all of us are worried about THEM — I can say without hesitation that Israelis are very much worried about US. As the Mayor of Ofakim told us, “We have a war here. You have a war there.” There is an understanding that this is a global war on world Jewry and that only by standing together can we defeat this enemy. It knows no borders. 

Which brings me to my last question, one I’ve heard more than once since I came home. “So how was the trip?”

It is hard to put into words. Meaningful. Exhausting. Intense. Heartening. Above all, I want you to know that there is a sense of deep purpose and community in Israel now. Unity. Shared destiny. People are stepping up on the grassroots level to do what needs to be done. 

V’yesh Tikvah. There is always hope. They found it in themselves in a hopeless world. I saw it in the determined eyes of Amnon Zarka at Mitzpe Ramon. I saw it in the leaders of Ofakim firm in the belief that their wounded city would heal and thrive again. I felt it in the hugs and coffee of Cochy Abuharon. I heard it in the words of Shai Ajaj who envisioned one million new Negev residents. I foresaw hope in the machonim at the Jewish Agency in Jerusalem, youth who would be the next great leaders of our people. I saw it in a pregnant Sderot mother’s hope for healing for her children scarred by traumatic attacks. So many stories, all underpinned by hope.

Hope is our secret weapon. And it isn’t a facile belief that, “everything will be all right.” Or that the road is easy or short. Every single Israeli we met knows the road will be long and difficult. When has it not? But we will continue, and we will thrive, together. 

אנחנו לא לבד

We are not alone. 

Am Yisrael Chai.