By Forest Rain
Last week I went to Be’eri to help the farmers pick their
oranges and mandarins. The groves are straight, clean, and lush, full of fruit
more delicious than any other I’ve tasted.
Two months after my first visit to Be’eri following the
Hamas massacre, I still find myself reluctant to write about Be’eri. I’d rather
write about their oranges.
It was January when I went for the first time, three months
after October 7th. I thought I was ready to visit Be’eri.
I had already been to Nir Oz and Nirim, seen the
destruction, and heard survivors speak of their murdered neighbors, those taken
hostage, and what had happened to their families on October 7th. As
terrible as their stories were, I knew that what had happened in Be’eri was
worse.
The Hamas massacre was so horrific that most of what
happened was not shown on Israeli TV, to not traumatize the public. Numerous
survivors refused to describe what they saw in detail because the details were
too horrible.
We all saw the staggering stream of bodies being carried out
of Kibbutz Be’eri. That image was deemed to be “clean” enough for the media to
air. 97 people were murdered from a community of around 1200.
I didn’t see the Hamas livestream of their slaughter. I saw
the videos and heard the testimonies of the rescue workers who desperately
searched for the living and discovered people who had been tortured, raped, and
burned to death.
I knew what had happened and thought I was ready to see
Be’eri. I wasn’t.
My friend Eva Hetzroni lived in
Be’eri, (2.5 miles/4 kilometers from Gaza). When Gazans rioted near the fence,
burning tires (riots we now know were covers for practicing how to invade
Israel), Eva told me of the air being drenched in smoke and having difficulty
breathing. Helplessly I would apologize and sometimes afterwards I would cry
that my friend was suffering from the hate of her neighbors.
No one prepared for the hate that would boil through the
fence and incinerate everything in its path…
When things were peaceful, Eva would tell me about her
husband Avia and her beloved twin grandchildren Liel and Yannai.
Eva passed away some months before the war. It took me a few
weeks to gather up the courage to check what had happened to her family. The
lists of the murdered and the hostages from Be’eri were so long… Avia was
murdered. Yannai was murdered. Liel was murdered. Their great-aunt Ayala,
“Aylush” (who was raising them because their mother had become disabled during
childbirth) was also murdered. The twin’s mother, Shira, and her caregiver
survived.
The front door of Avia’s house was still marked with Zaka’s
sticker indicating that they had checked the house. There was also a piece of
tape where someone had written his name: Avia Hetzroni, HYD (the abbreviation
for May God avenge his blood).
Avia was a senior emergency medical technician and ambulance
driver for Magen David Adom. Everyone knew him.
He was one of those people that made others feel confident and safe.
People turned to him for help because he always seemed to know what to do, and
he did it with a gracious and generous spirit.
I braced myself before walking into the place where this
capable man was murdered. It seems he was in the “safe room” when the monsters
came. Although the house had been cleaned, the bullet holes remained, telling
the story of what had happened.
Bullet holes in the security glass of the safe room/ (made to protect people
from missile shrapnel, not terrorists shooting in through the glass).
Bullet holes through the outside of the safe room door.
Bullet holes in the wall across from the door.
I was told Avia crawled, dragging himself wounded, from the
safe room towards the kitchen. That image flashed through my mind before I
could erase it. The room I was standing in didn’t have streaks of blood on the
floor. Not anymore. Others had to deal with the reality of that horror.
Walking towards the house where Liel and Yannai lived with
their aunt Ayala, I was struck by the beauty of Be’eri. The homes are
comfortable and solid, structures that speak of easy living and
permanence.
Other kibbutzim, as lovely as they may be, are different.
The houses are often very simple, structures designed to be put up fast and
provide sufficient shelter. After all, what do people need in a place where
they spend much of their time outside and never lock their doors? The contrast
between the lovely communities and the destruction wrecked on them is
gut-wrenching. Of all the places I witnessed, the dichotomy is most harsh in
Be’eri.
Heavy-hearted, I knew I was going to see the place where Liel
and Yannai were murdered. I thought I was ready. Turning the corner, I felt
like I walked into an invisible brick wall.
My eyes understood what they were seeing. My brain gasped,
grasping for enough oxygen to process what was in front of me.
This wasn’t a terror attack. It
wasn’t a battle. This was a war. Inside our borders, inside our homes.
I’ve never found it so hard to put one foot in front of the
other. To go see, from close.
The smashed homes, riddled with bullets and charred by smoke
don’t begin to tell the stories of the monsters who swarmed here destroying
everything in their path and laughing with joy. They tortured children in front
of their parents and parents in front of their children. They mutilated, raped,
and burned alive entire families.
And they did it for hours and hours on end.
I walked through destruction that told the story of the war
that happened when the army finally arrived. Late and too few they came - not
as they should have, an organized army ready for battle, but as individual
warriors, heroes willing to sacrifice themselves to save others. They succeeded
in pulling some out of the hell they were in. Other times, they failed.
They didn’t succeed in saving Liel and Yannai or their aunt
Ayala. I was hesitant to walk into their home and did so with reverence, trying
to imagine what they experienced.
Liel’s room had a blue wall with a decorative metal piece
that looked like butterflies or leaves. The house, with things flung
everywhere, looked like a hurricane had blown through it. The monsters barged
in and dragged them to the neighbor’s home where they and others were held
hostage for hours. Rage welled inside me to see that the monsters spray-painted
the walls with writing declaring Allah’s supremacy and crediting their unit for
what they had done to my friend’s family.
They had so much time on their hands that they could “sign”
their work.
Swallowing my rage made my head hurt. I thought I was going
to lose it when leaving the house, my feet crunched on beads strewn across the
floor. Liel’s beads? Was it a piece of jewelry she loved or beads for
handicrafts that she wanted to do? I don’t know. I only know that she should be
alive and isn’t.
I would rather write about the oranges of Be’eri. Or their
extraordinary printing business. I don’t want to write about the horror or the
feeling of being violently violated.
Perhaps people who have experienced rape or had their home
broken into can understand what it means to have your sanctuary, your home,
your body, broken into and ripped apart in a way that makes it clear that what
you thought was yours isn’t in your control. The violation that cannot be
healed. The burden of knowing what happened which must be carried forever. The
breaking of the spirit when you discover that you imagined yourself to be safe
but it was a fantasy, not reality.
It’s not something you want to talk about. It’s not
something you want to even admit to out loud. But we must. Otherwise, how will
we live?
The people of Be’eri, like the people of Israel, are strong.
Broken, yet still standing, we put one foot in front of the other and do what
we must. There are houses to rebuild, although it will take a long time and
enormous effort before they can again become homes. The printing house is
working.
There are oranges to be picked.
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