Notes from Israel’s South

     Standing at Re’im, the site of the Nova music festival, one is overcome by the vastness of the portraits. They came to exhilarate in their young lives, to celebrate their friendships together and to dance with joy. Coming for a weekend of music, of revelry, and of dancing among friends, 365 of them were butchered on that Black Sabbath. Row after row of beautiful portraits of people with their young lives in front of them. 44 were taken back into the underground hellhole that is Gaza. How many of them remain alive today?

   And then there was Kibbutz Be’eri, where we were met by my friend whose face is etched with sadness. He was one of the lucky few who managed to survive. His family home, once a place of compassion and levity, is now nothing but burnt-out ash. This is what his entire neighborhood of 125 homes looks like. Be’eri once had 1200 residents. Today they have less than 100.

   132 members of Kibbutz Be’eri were slaughtered on October 7, 2023. We walked on the roads where the “elite” Qassam brigades Al Nukhba terrorists murdered innocent human beings. Over 100 went missing on that terrible Shabbat. We saw the home of a medic and his wife, a nurse, where people entered to be saved.

They, too, were barbarically murdered by Hamas.

The echoes of their laughter and levity still seem to hang in the air, a stark reminder of the joyous moments that were so cruelly interrupted. It’s hard to reconcile the surreal scene of abandoned stages and scattered personal belongings with the horror that unfolded. Each item left behind—a charred crib, a burned out toddler bike, a shoe, a backpack—feels like a fragment of an unfinished story. For the families who had eternally waited for the army to arrive and for news of their loved ones on October 7th, time became an unbearable burden, stretching endlessly between hope and despair.

Amidst the anguish, however, there are moments that reveal the depth of human courage. Stories surface of strangers forming human chains to pull each other to safety, of festival workers who stayed back to guide others out despite the risk, most of whom were murdered, and of Zaka rescue teams tirelessly combing through the chaos in search of remnants of survivors. These acts of bravery remind us that even in the darkest hours, the Israeli  capacity for selflessness endures.

   Then were the rows and rows of 1500 burned out cars. Each car had multiple live human beings trapped inside. There were scores of stories of heroes who took Route 232 down south to rescue their friends. They, themselves, were trapped by the blazing inferno.

This is the result of decade upon decade upon a contagion of ubiquitous hatred. In UNRWA schools. In the media. In mosques.

The depth of the devastation because of this malignancy of hatred that surrounds Israel is matched only by the extraordinary acts of humanity that emerged amidst the chaos. Yet, naïve people feel that an immediate end to the war would eradicate the hatred that inspired this war. Would we have left the Nazis in power in the midst of World War Two?  Do we remember that the war took six years?

If we are anything at all, we are a people whose identity is forged in memory. Our collective memories is the very DNA that creates our identity, that defines us as a nation. And we apply these difficult lessons to today. How can we negotiate with people that reject every offer? A people that use our hostages as their human shields?  How can we let our guard down and be willing to ignore the fact that Hamas, or some ideological offspring, will not remain and metastasize? How do we know there will be no more October 7ths, again and again?

By the roadside, statues of red poppies have been planted, laid gently by trembling hands, as if each petal could somehow undo the cruelty of that fateful day. Communities shattered by violence are now clinging together, trying to rebuild their shattered lives, weaving bonds not out of hope alone but out of a shared reckoning—a determination that the lives lost will not be forgotten, that this moment will mark a turning point, whether in hearts or in history.

And yet, the questions linger in the desolate silence: How can any semblance of a real and genuine peace, one that can endure for generations, emerge from ashes soaked in such profound despair? Perhaps, the answer lies in uniting the fragments left behind—in transforming sorrow into the thread of our collective identities, remembering that even amidst the darkest hours, there exists the faintest flicker of light.

Conversations we witnessed today are raw, filled with stories of bravery and sacrifice. Each account adds to the mosaic of resilience, of more and more young soldiers volunteering to serve in dangerous, elite units, of creating a collective identity that refuses to let the horrors of October 7 fade into obscurity. These moments of remembrance interweave with actions of rebuilding, laying the groundwork for a future that holds both solemnity and determination.

The people of Israel’s south, though weathered by the storm of anguish, begin to script a future where hope is not merely a word but an act of defiance. The landscape itself seemed to echo the anguish of the moment, its scorched fields and hollowed trees bearing silent witness to the violence that swept across the region. Conversations with survivors painted vivid pictures of a resilience that defies comprehension—a determination to move forward despite the weight of collective trauma. The stories of families clutching fragments of their past, whether a photo or a faded piece of clothing, highlighted the indomitable spirit that seeks to preserve what little remains of their once-thriving lives.

Some farmers of Kibbutz Be’eri are returning to their scorched fields, their hands tracing the soil with a resolute promise to nurture life again. Schools, though silent now, stand poised to reopen their doors, ready to echo once more with the laughter of children—a laughter that will rise as the most profound defiance against those who sought to extinguish it.

In the face of atrocities designed to fracture and intimidate, the communities of the “Otef”, (the south), embody a profound truth: that unity forged in sorrow can be an unbreakable force. Leaders, activists, and ordinary citizens work tirelessly to ensure that the lessons of October 7th are not relegated to the annals of history but serve as a rallying cry for greater protection and vigilance, and an unwavering commitment to the sanctity of life.

The wounds, both visible and invisible, will take years—perhaps generations—to heal. But even amid the sorrow, the people of Israel’s south teach the world an invaluable lesson: that strength is not the absence of vulnerability, but the courage to rebuild, to dream, and to persist against all odds. As the first seeds of renewal are sown, they carry with them not only the memory of what was lost but the strength and resilience to endure forever.

Through the heartbreak and the struggle, a question rises—a question that echoes not only in the homes of the south but across the nation and beyond: What does it mean to rebuild? To many, rebuilding means more than laying bricks or sowing seeds; it is a reimagining of life itself, a renewal of the spirit that connects humanity in its most vulnerable moments.

And as the collective efforts grow, so too does a sense of purpose. Each person—whether a kibbutz farmer, a builder, a teacher, an artist, or a volunteer—becomes part of a larger tapestry, a testament to the enduring strength of a fragile state united not only by twenty months of grief and an existential war on seven fronts but by an unwavering belief in a better tomorrow. This belief, brittle yet resilient, becomes the cornerstone of an Israeli future where tragedy does not define but inspires transformation.

As the days pass, the scars across the landscape—and within the hearts of the people—remain etched deeply. Yet, alongside mourning stands defiance: the resolute vow that terror will not dictate the future, nor will it extinguish the enduring spirit of joy and of hope   that once thrived in these communities. The resolve to protect, to endure, and to triumph against our enemies  becomes a call that echoes beyond the borders of the south.

Through the lens of resilience, many questions remain.  Answers often emerge slowly, in the quiet moments of reflection or in the tireless efforts of those who refuse to give in to despair.

In the end, the act of rebuilding transcends the physical, as it transcends Israel’s southern borders. It becomes part of a national legacy about nurturing the soul of a nation, about finding ways to honor those who have fallen while creating a truth that endures. It is about teaching future generations that from the ashes of devastation, hope indeed can rise—not as an abstract ideal but as a living, breathing force that propels us forward.

As the stories of unimaginable loss seep through the cracks of this parched soil, there emerges an undeniable thread of Israeli moral resolve, determination and tenacity. Survivors, those who have lost everything, now stand as witnesses to history, carrying the heavy burden of recounting their truths of what they witnessed on October 7^th  to the world. Their voices rise, trembling but unyielding, against the backdrop of ruin—a testament to the strength, hope and resilience of the Israeli people.

Sarah N. Stern is Founder and President of EMET.