It began just a few minutes after we arrived at Ben Gurion Airport.
A feeling. A pain. A sense of betrayal. And a single word.
“Why?”
About a month ago, exhausted by a steady diet of links and news articles forwarded by colleagues, organizations and congregants, Patte and I decided to lead a small group to Sderot, a small city on the border with Gaza. We recently returned from several days of helping and, hopefully in some small way, “rebuild and repair” communities attacked on October 7.
We performed a number of tasks, spoke with Israelis, and later traveled to Jerusalem, ultimately attending a rally of more than 50,000 Israelis in Tel Aviv.
We arrived with no agenda. Rather, we were there to listen, and above all to “bear witness.”
Our plan upon our arrival was to take a cab to the central Tel Aviv train station, travel by rail to the southern city of Ashkelon, and then order a GETT — the Israeli equivalent of Uber — to take us to the home in Sderot where we would join our group, which had arrived the previous day.
But it seemed less complicated to locate a taxi at the airport, pay the 500 shekels ($130), and drive directly to our destination.
As we sat in the back seat, Alex, our driver, asked the question that we would frequently hear during our week in Israel.
“Why are you here?” It was an honest question, posed not to engage in social conversation, but to truly ask — within a country currently void of Jewish, Christian and Asian tourists — what we were doing in a country where citizens were feeling isolated, attacked and maligned.
“We were tired of watching,” I replied in Hebrew. “We wanted to see for ourselves, to work, and maybe even to feel the pain.”
Perhaps it relates to “soul scars” accumulated after watching so many Holocaust movies and images. But in the aftermath of October 7, I heard so many Jews admitting, “I can’t watch.” or “It’s too upsetting.”
After so many decades of witnessing the inconceivable, I believe there exists an instinct within the Jewish world to turn away from unspeakable crimes, torture, mutilation and brutality.
Yet, we are routinely exposed to — and seem to accept — the contoured images from across the border that flood the media every day.
Later on the trip, I noticed a t-shirt in Tel Aviv’s Carmel Market. “Where were your eyes on October 7?”
That t-shirt now hangs on the door handle of my office. In some way, it inspires me to return to that day — and not turn away.
Alex, a father of three in his mid-30s, looked at us through his rearview mirror. As he studied his weary passengers, there was silence
A few minutes later, he began to speak.
“I lost seven close friends that day. Six men and one woman, who were on the border. They never had a chance.”
And then the “whys.” “Why did it take so long for the army to get there? Why is the world so hateful of us when we did not start this? Why is the world turning away from the action of animals on that day?”
He paused for a moment as he considered his last statement.
“No, that would be an insult to animals.”
We arrived at our host home in Sderot just as our group was concluding a Zoom discussion with an expert on worldwide Muslim militancy.
It was enough to take in for one evening. We retired with already a lot to consider.
Early the next morning, a small bus arrived taking our group of eight to Kibbutz Sufa — an Israeli settlement just across the Gaza border from Rafah.
Our task was to clean and repair a kindergarten so that children could feel a sense of normalcy upon their return.
It was later noted that this work could have been performed by Israeli volunteers, or even returning residents. But organizers of of Livnot U’Lehibanot — To Build & Be Built (https://livnot.org) reminded us how much it will mean to returning residents that someone like our group cared enough to travel and brighten their shattered communities.
We worked hard.
After an hour, the kibbutz caretaker, Daniel, arrived. He is the only current resident of the community — and he told the story of that day.
You may have seen the video of the yellow metal door of the kibbutz opening at 6:30 am to enable a car to exit. It was a son leaving to pick up his mother for a day’s excursion.
He was attacked and killed immediately, enabling dozens of terrorists to enter the settlement.
And then the questions began.
“How did they know exactly which houses to go to?” Daniel asked. “How did they know who was the head of security that they needed to eliminate?”
Two factors limited the kibbutz casualties to under 10. That morning, the head of security was not in his usual house, but rather next door sleeping on the second floor.
As the Hamas unit commander and three others tried to enter his home, the young Israeli shot from his higher vantage point and killed the four.
At the same time, a unit of Israeli soldiers, en route to Eilat, heard the commotion, entered the kibbutz and killed two dozen Hamas fighters both inside and outside of the gates.
Within the context of October 7, it was a miracle. Yet, for Daniel and others on the 22 settlements attacked that day, he repeated, “How did they know exactly where to go?”
It was a question we would consistently hear as we worked in other communities — not only in Sufa — but also to the north in Kibbutz Gevurah and Moshav Yachini.
As we painted, knocked down damaged buildings, cleaned, wiped and washed, we spoke with some Israelis, who confided that their trust and confidence in making peace with their neighbors had been shattered.
Each concluded that the workers, who were employed in these settlements — in landscaping, construction and in the communal kitchen — had provided detailed instructions with regard to who lived where, what their daily habits were, who kept their doors locked and unlocked, and who was out of town.
That was later borne out by papers recovered in Gaza tunnels, of detailed maps of each settlement.
“We were always told that the country had our back and that the army would be there within minutes,” noted Aron, a leader of the Yemenite moshav where we spent a day painting.
He also lamented that so many of those Gazans who regularly crossed into Israel on that day, looted homes, and in some cases took captured Israelis, dragging them over the border, ultimately selling them to Hamas as hostages.
Indeed, we had come with no preconceived ideas. We were mainly there, and as Jewish tradition encourages, to consider the questions.
Yet remarkably, as we worked through each settlement, we heard a series of affirmations, and an uncompromised faith and connection with God
“We will never be victims,” noted one leader. “We will learn to defend ourselves so this will never happen again.”
“Perhaps this is God’s will — for us to stand stronger.”
There was no denying the sense of betrayal as residents looked north to Israel’s capital, Jerusalem, and across the border to Gaza.
“It is one thing to fight for land,” said one. “There are winners and losers, but to rape, and to burn and behead children, while grandmothers watched and were later killed. That is ‘unforgiveable.’”
That night we met our host, Shiran, a deeply grieving soul, who offered her home to those willing to travel to Israel to “repair and rebuild.”
It was early morning on October 7, when she reached out to her best friend, Odia, who she considered her “sister.”
She received no reply. Something was wrong.
As the traffic cameras in Sderot would later confirm, Odia and her husband, who were out early with their two young daughters, ages three and seven, encountered the first wave of Hamas fighters
As terrorists shot at the car, Odia’s husband ran off with one of their daughters.
He was shot, and as he lay dying, the cameras captured his last words, “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.”
As he took his final last breath, his young daughter ran off to accompany her mother, who was running to safety. They ended up at the Sderot police station where Odia became one of about 20 victims as it was destroyed.
Nearby, a bus of 15 senior citizens was attacked. Some of them were Holocaust survivors. They all perished.
Odia’s two children survived after her seven-year-old pushed her three-year-old sister under the seat of an open car. The older girl hid under a blanket until the two were later rescued by Israeli troops.
The children are now being raised by their older sisters.
Meanwhile, Shiran and her children hid from Hamas in the family’s safe room, while her husband sat for 20 hours in a chair with two knives.
The family asked, “Why?” Why did it take so long for help to arrive?
As he sat there, he heard the voice of Hamas outside, but the terrorists never entered.
The trauma prevents Shirin’s family from returning. They are temporarily housed in a nearby town, but she implored us:
“Please share the story of Odia, my sister.”
The following day, we were taken to the Tekuma Car Graveyard, where the skeletons of more than 1,500 charred vehicles were stacked.
Each one bore witness to a horror story or a tale of heroism, as many Israelis drove in and out of the Nova music festival site, packing their vehicles with fleeing Israelis.
Some returned three or four times, ultimately dying as they returned to pick up one more load.
At times, Patte and I felt like unwelcome guests at a private shiva. As our tour guide told the stories of many of the burned-out cars, Israelis who had traveled to the site told the guide in Hebrew, “Speak only in Hebrew…Why are they (the Americans here)? This is our story.”
But the guide persisted in both English and Hebrew
The guide noted it was the first time authorities were forced to gather the ashes of Jewish men, women and children since World War II.
Later, an elderly woman approached me and apologized.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, her head bowed. “You have to understand that we are trying to know what and why this happened.
“Zeh ko’ev li. It hurts me.”
We completed the first half of our week by hosting a group of soldiers who had not had a break since October 7.
As we prepared salads, hamburgers and chicken skewers, our group refrained from discussing any of the “whys” associated with this war.
We just wanted them to relax.
As we mingled with the soldiers, Steven — one of our Limud Hebrew school teachers — mentioned a young man he had coached who is listed as one of the hostages.
As it turned out, the young man was a member of this group. They exchanged stories about this “mensch” and prayed for his release.
There are no coincidences in this world.
As Shabbat approached, it was time for Patte and me to reflect upon what we had experienced in southern Israel.
We boarded a public bus in Sderot and headed northeast to Jerusalem. Our hearts were sobered by the brutal accounts we had consistently heard.
As we entered a cab en route to our Airbnb, our Arab driver quickly initiated a conversation. “What Hamas did is not Islam,” he shared. “We make good livings, our wives can have careers, and can drive, and our children get a good education. Health care is good.
“We are happier here than we would in other countries.” We nodded as we heard this message often repeated in Jerusalem cabs.
Shabbat morning, we arrived at the Western Wall just after 6 am. As we placed your messages in the Kotel, adding our own prayers for Israel’s safety and peace, our hearts softened just a little.
As we walked away from the Wall at 7 am, we were drawn into the Kiddush held by a group of about 30 Sephardic Jews. We were fed and welcomed.
The first to extend a hand, I later learned, was one of the senior rabbis of Sderot, temporarily living in Jerusalem.
We discussed — from both a liberal and orthodox perspective —this week’s Torah portion, and we actually agreed. He thanked us for our service, and we blessed him for extended a welcoming hand.
There are few coincidences in this world
As Shabbat came to a close, we travelled to Tel Aviv to walk among Israelis gravitating toward several evening demonstrations.
Standing at the bus stop as the sun set, we noticed a woman in her mid-50s wearing a Hebrew shirt — Bring Them Home Now.
I asked her if she was going to the demonstration, and she nodded.
She pointed across the street to a beachfront hotel where she and her entire kibbutz have been staying since the second week of October.
“We have been living together as a community for nine months,” she said. “But we just want to go home.”
Patte touched her shoulder and there was an unspoken silence. We continue on foot to Dizengoff Square, where each day, Tel Aviv residents gather around photos of the hostages and stained teddy bears, remembering those who perished on October 7.
We were told that the Dizengoff site was more for contemplation. “The real action is around Kaplan Street,” someone sitting next to us offered.
We hailed a cab and asked the driver to take us there.
“Why are you going there?” the cabbie snapped.
“Because we want to experience what is going on in Israel,” I replied.
The driver pointed to the mall across the street and strongly encouraged us to get out. “You are spoiled tourists,” he said. “Go to the mall and buy something
“It is only the ugly people who are going to the demonstrations.”
More determined than ever, we insisted he drop us off at Kaplan Street where we observed an estimated 50,000 people, many toting Israeli flags, heading toward two epicenters.
One was a rally against the government. We were told there is “too much rage” there. The other demonstration was to support families of hostages, and to encourage the government to “bring them home.”
Earlier that day, as we sought a few moments of refuge from the heat in the lobby of the Renaissance Hotel, someone suddenly grabbed an Israeli flag, and began waving it. He was joined in a chorus of Am Yisrael Chai. News had just reached us that four of the hostages had been rescued.
In view of that joyous news, we thought the Kaplan Street demonstration would be a bit more upbeat, but there remained a heaviness to the gathering.
It was revealed that one of the Israeli team had died in the rescue, and, as many of the families spoke from the podium, there existed a consistent and unbending cry to, “Bring the hostages home.”
Many wore hats with the one word we repeatedly heard — achshav — “Now.”
We respectfully kept our distance as the demonstrators focused on the speakers.
Some, like the taxi driver, believe the best route for Israel is to persist, do what it takes to destroy Hamas, and thus rescue the remaining hostages.
Others at the demonstration contended that it is time for a ceasefire in order to bring the hostages home, and subsequently, strengthen defenses so that the events of October 7 can never be repeated.
We observed and listened. After all, we do not live in Israel, pay taxes in Israel, vote in Israel, or send our children off to war in Israel.
We are as we were often reminded, Americans who may have a lot of opinions, but are not living this every day.
We reminded some we spoke with, that we were there only to work, to make a small difference, and to bear witness.
Most nodded in agreement.
…….
It has now been four days since our return.
As we watch the news, perhaps a little bit wiser, we observe images from Gaza and continued campus activity. They are compelling but they do not reflect the true and full story.
Judaism bemoans the loss of all life, but we are struck upon our return by the lack of balance?
The same architects who initiated the October 7 attack are directly linked to a worldwide religious movement to eliminate feminism, the LGBTQ community, secularism, or any remnant of religious pluralism.
Against a backdrop of a terrorist organization, which vows to commit these atrocities “again and again,” coupled with statements made a few days ago by its leaders that the children that Hamas are hiding behind are martyrs toward a greater cause — what would you do?
As a former journalist, someone who has taught journalism, and one who has worked as a press secretary, I am aware that when reporters “pitch” dramatic stories to their editors, the balanced truth does not always emerge.
I am also aware that “news” becomes “olds” very quickly, and that too often, what occurs nine months earlier can be lost within day-to-day stories and the ratings war.
We are taught in the Torah to never initiate war—but if war comes, to fight fiercely.
Patte and I ask — aside from an occasional perfunctory mention — where are the consistent images of the brutality of October 7? That harsh reality remains consistently absent
There will be many answers demanded in future to the questions of “how” and “why.” But for now we must stand with Israel.
The statements “I can’t watch.” or “It’s too upsetting” must be confronted. For like the Holocaust, if we do not bear witness, who will?
The words, “We will do this again and again.” ring in my ears.
While Hamas uses children as human shields, while they hide deep in tunnels or in hotel suites in Qatar, the question remains, “Who is the true force of evil, and who is the voice of peace?”
Patte and I, and our small group played a miniscule role rebuilding and repairing. We went with an open mind, and we left with much to consider. Another group from our synagogue may travel to Israel this summer
Please let me know if you are interested. The program is virtually free for those between 21 and 40
An Israeli flag now spans the front of my office door with the added words, Am Yisrael Chai — and Beyachad Netzach. Together we will prevail.
How revealing that Hamas recorded what they did. What prevents us, as Jews, to watch and ultimately correct the imbalance?
For if we do not stand with Israel — who will?
As we watch the nightly news and bemoan the situation in Gaza, there is rarely mention of how this all began.
Still, as we consider what happened on that tragic day, as we witness a lack of balance in the media and on campus, as we consistently observe rampant anti-Israel, anti-Semitic rantings around the world, we echo the questions repeatedly posed by Israelis during our seven days we were in Israel.
Where is the world? Where is the outrage? And perhaps most of all.
Why?
Shabbat shalom, v’kol tuv.
Rabbi Irwin Huberman