Is this the expected culmination of a struggle for survival that will inevitably involve heartbreaking numbers of civilian casualties and suffering, and the resulting criticism? Or has Israel squandered all the public sympathy that was originally directed in its direction as a result of a war waged so carelessly to humanitarian concerns?
Is this the bitter fruit of Israel’s years of mistreatment of Palestinians and misguided policies in the disputed territories? Or does it reflect the ugly reality that many people around the world have never acknowledged the existence of Israel as a Jewish state?
On a short visit, I came here on a trip organized by the synagogue, and I cannot answer these questions. But it suggests a different, more layered perspective than the one I usually write from from the comfort of my kitchen table in suburban Maryland.
Visiting the sites of the October 7th atrocities and speaking with survivors is as heart-breaking as visiting a concentration camp, but it’s as if the Holocaust happened only a few months ago. Yes, it seems as if the enemy has not yet been defeated.
For proof, you need to come to Kfar Aza, a nearly deserted kibbutz just a few miles from the Gaza border. Beyond the barbed wire gate and vacant lot, the smoky skyline of Gaza City can be seen. It was to see a youth dormitory pockmarked with bullet holes and burnt down by Hamas terrorists, and how shocking October 7th was, even for those accustomed to rocket fire and warning sirens. To understand what it was.
We meet a farmer who is displaying the chair that saved his family, destroyed by his mischievous grandchildren and hidden in a safe room in Kfar Azha. On October 7, a farmer’s son wedged a chair under the door handle of a safe room designed to protect against rocket attacks rather than terrorists inside the house.
Elsewhere on the kibbutz, the son’s brother-in-law and sister-in-law were not so lucky. The terrorists killed them, and his son has now adopted 10-month-old twins, who escaped the line of fire and remained in one crib until they were rescued 14 hours after the attack began. We survived safely while crying together.
And it’s here in Reims, the site of the music festival where 364 concertgoers were murdered, that we walk between each monument with 364 saplings planted in their memory. Thing.
It is about lighting Yahrzeit memorial candles under an olive grove, reciting Kaddish for the dead, and recognizing that, as Israeli artillery shells eerily echo nearby, The threat is not far off, it is palpable, and an even more dangerous war could break out on the northern border between Israel and Lebanon.
None of this prescribes an answer, but the extent to which Israelis experience October 7th as a threat to their own existence and whether their plan to destroy Hamas’s military capabilities is left unfinished will be provides important context for why people continue to believe they are at risk.
At home, we mourn the deaths of innocent people, especially children. I fear that whatever the exact number, whatever the combination of terrorists and civilians, the number of victims has become too vast to be accepted as moral and just. . While concerns about humanitarian aid being diverted to support Hamas are understandable, Israel’s stance was needlessly counterproductive even before the massacre of World Central kitchen workers who were feeding Gazans. I am concerned that this may be the case.
My anxiety remains here in Israel, but it is diminished by the realization of how vulnerable this small country is and how many threats exist. On the surface, much of daily life has resumed, but there is a pallor of sadness. Jerusalem’s Old City, usually crowded with pilgrims, was eerily empty over Easter weekend.
Tens of thousands of Israelis remain forced from their homes in the Gaza Strip and along the border with Lebanon, many of them living in hotel rooms. “Do you realize how sad we all are?” asked one Israeli friend. People profess optimism, but they can’t help but ask some questions and hear about their lingering fears and traumas.
There were some surprises about Israel’s response, both welcome and disappointing.
On the positive side, I was not prepared for the gratitude that the Israeli people would express to us Americans simply by visiting. This reaction, which had done nothing more praiseworthy than a long plane ride, occurred across the political spectrum, from the remnants of the Israeli left to more conservative constituencies, and most importantly What I was also worried about was that the soldiers would appreciate our non-military service. . However, it was a sign of Israel’s growing isolation, and, most worryingly, of American Jews.
On the less glamorous side, I never understood how resistant the Israeli public was to providing humanitarian aid to Gaza while hostages remained in captivity. From the moment we step off the plane, we see posters with the faces of so many hostages, young and old, under the banner “Bring them home.” It’s missing, but it’s everywhere.
This brought out the worst in Israeli citizens, with some protesters even going so far as to block aid convoys. The vast majority of Israeli Jews insist that the suffering of civilians in the Gaza Strip should be taken into account in some way or at all, but this fundamentally strikes me as It is a hardening of the heart that feels non-Jewish.
Still, being here and witnessing the virtually zero degree separation between our citizens and the hostages, I understand better the urgency that we must do whatever it takes to bring them home now. I am going to do it-Akshav! — Even if it means causing pain to other innocent people.
That’s why I’m troubled by the term “existential loneliness.” Few other countries have had to worry about their very survival for so long and with such new intensity. Few people in the company have ever felt so alone.
