and, as of October 8, the head of Nahal Oz’s community. I’m 55 years old, born and raised on the kibbutz that is located a mere 800 meters away from the Gaza Strip. My childhood was never marked by fear as I roamed around the lush, beautiful kibbutz, barefoot and carefree.
As a mother, I spent my years living in constant dissonance – torn between my will to give my children safety, freedom, and a happy childhood, and the ever-present dread that something bad was bound to happen; that the sound of sirens would catch them off-guard on their way to school, on the soccer field, or on going to visit a friend. On October 7, everything I wanted to give them was torn to shreds. Not only for me but for all other kibbutz members who survived the terrible massacre.
And we have been living in utter chaos ever since, together and individually. I head a homeless, displaced community with Berry Meirovitz, the commander of our alert squad who fought to protect the kibbutz on October 7 and partner in managing the community. We are still mourning over the loss of 13 of our members and two foreign workers who lost their lives simply because they earned their keep working at Nahal Oz.
Our community aches with the continued absence of Tsachi Idan and Omri Miran, 238 days since this war started. How is that even possible? Tsachi and Omri also dreamed of a safe and happy home for their children. They dreamed about a tight-knit community, about sitting on their porch with a cup of coffee or a .
