Keeping lawns neat in front of burned homes - a year on at kibbutz where Hamas killed 101
A
few metres from a charred home in Kibbutz Be'eri, Simon King tends to a
patch of ground in the sunshine. The streets around him are eerily
quiet, the silence punctuated only by the sound of air strikes that ring
in the near distance.
In this
community almost a year ago, 101 people were killed after gunmen from
Hamas and other groups rampaged through Be'eri's tree-lined streets,
burning homes and shooting people indiscriminately. Another 30 residents
and their family members were taken to Gaza as hostages.
Survivors hid in safe rooms all day and long into the night - exchanging horrifying details with each other over community WhatsApp groups, as they tried to make sense of what was happening.
The
kibbutz was a strong community, where people lived and operated
together as one. Neighbours were more like extended family. It is one of
a small number of kibbutzim in Israel that still operates as a
collective.
But now, post-7 October, the collective is splintered - psychologically and physically.
About
one in 10 were killed. Only a few of the survivors have returned to
their homes. Some travel back to the kibbutz daily to work, but can't
face overnight stays. Many, after months in a hotel, are now living in
prefabricated buildings on another kibbutz 40km (25 miles) away.
The community, built up over nearly 80 years, is being 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 7
October holed up in a safe room - designed to protect residents from
rocket attacks.
"You
look to the left and it's like, 'Oh it's my friend who lost her
parents.' You look to the right, 'It's my friend who lost her father,'
[and then] 'She lost her mother.' It's everywhere you look."
Inside
Be'eri, surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire, you are
never far from a house completely burnt or destroyed, or an empty patch
of land where a home, wrecked that day, has been demolished.
Some
streets might, upon first glance, appear almost untouched - but look
closely and even there you will see markings spray-painted on walls by
military units on or after 7 October. Houses where people were killed or
kidnapped have black banners on the facades with their names and
photos.
In the carcass of one
burnt-out home, a board game rests on top of a coffee table, next to a
melted television remote control. Food, long-rotten, is still in the
fridge-freezer and the smell of burning lingers.
"Time
stood still in the house," says Dafna, 40, as she pokes through the
ash-covered wreckage. She and her family had been playing that board
game on the eve of the attacks.
Here,
her disabled father and his Filipina carer hid for hours in their
fortified safe room, as their home burned down around them. Dafna says
it is a miracle they both survived.
Her
brother did not. A member of Be'eri's emergency response squad, he was
killed in a gunfight at the kibbutz's dental clinic. Dafna was staying
in his house at the time, on a visit from her home in Germany.
Dozens
of buildings in Be'eri are spattered with bullet holes - including the
nursery. The play park and petting zoo are empty. No children have moved
back, and the animals have been sent to new homes.
The
kibbutz's empty streets sometimes come alive, though, in a surprising
way - with organised tours for visitors, who give donations.
Israeli
soldiers, and some civilians from Israel and abroad, come to see the
broken homes, and hear accounts of the devastation, in order to
understand what happened.
Two of
those who volunteer to lead the tours, Rami Gold and Simon King, say
they are determined to ensure what happened here is remembered.
Simon, 60, admits this can be a difficult process.
"There's
a lot of mixed feelings and [the visitors] don't really know what to
ask but they can see and hear and smell… it's a very heavy emotional
experience."
Rami, 70, says these occasions are often followed by restless nights. Each tour, he says, takes him back to 7 October.
He is one of the few who moved back to Be'eri after the attacks.
And
the tours are not popular with everyone. "At some point it felt like
someone took over the kibbutz - everybody was there," Dafna says.
But
Simon says the stories have to be told. "Some don't like it because
it's their home and you don’t want people rummaging around," he says.
"But you have to send the message out, otherwise it will be forgotten."
At
the same time, both he and Rami say they are looking to the future,
describing themselves as "irresponsible optimists". They continue to
water the lawns and fix fences, amid the destruction, as others build
new homes that will replace those destroyed.
Simon describes the rebuilding as therapy.
