On the border with Gaza, the word ‘peace’ is dissected, synonyms are sought and plans are dreamt of

Ein Habesor, from our correspondent. The contradiction in time and space defies all expectations, and the word ‘peace’, ‘shalom’, carries a political meaning that, in Israel, clashes with its semantic connotations. The term is taken up and, in an effort to make sense of it, dissected; its meaning is sought in every letter: this is what occurs in private conversations over the past few weeks, during which Israelis discuss nothing but political parties, manifestos, the future, or plans to flee. In Israel, the deeper one delves into the Negev, the more the desert sands narrate a story of their own, setting this suffering and tormented region apart from the rest of the country. It is here that the stories of the most recent peace agreements and then of the great Hamas massacre were forged, and everything intertwines, gets lost, dissolves into questions that cannot be answered. Vineyards grow amidst the desert, and even this seems absurd – until you get to know the people who inhabit the land and hear their stories of determination. Just over forty years ago, Ein Habesor did not exist; the desert was a true desert – sand and dunes – until some seventy families agreed to leave the Sinai, where they had moved after the Six-Day War, and set out to create something new. To create means starting from scratch, with all the difficulties that entails, yet also with the luxury that nothingness affords: if something isn’t there, you can invent it however you like. This is what happened with Ein Habesor, a moshav that has chosen both the conventional economic path of privatisation and the social model of the kibbutz. Here, people live together, talk together, celebrate together and even argue together. They even campaign together, and there is no doubt that the majority of votes here will go to Yair Golan’s Democrats.

Chinaia is heavily made-up and goes about wearing the party’s sky-blue T-shirt. “It’s my uniform,” she says with satisfaction, explaining that she even went to Ofakim, a nearby town, dressed like this, to show Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s supporters that the left is still alive and kicking in Israel. “If I’d been a man, they might have beaten me up,” she laughs. She has taken part in pickets and demonstrations; she never gives up on politics – she lives and breathes it. She maintains that 27 October will be a day of liberation, and it is clear that in this country there are at least two other ‘countries’ that ignore one another. Ein Habesor was founded on a sacrifice made for peace; those who went to the Sinai transformed it and then had to leave, leaving everything behind. “We did it; it wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. And today, peace with Egypt holds; it’s a cold peace, but that’s fine. I don’t need to go to Egypt to visit Cairo – perhaps one day I’ll go – but for now, it’s enough for me that that front is closed,” says Mina, whose family was one of those that left Sadot, in the Sinai, and, looking around, went on to build Ein Habesor. Her personal story is one of survival; she speaks with the confidence of someone who knows that everything has to be earned, and shows every corner of the moshav with pride: she built it from scratch. Mina’s living room fills with people; the Israelis are passionate when they speak, and amidst the insults directed at the Prime Minister and ‘the five fascists’ living in the moshav – who are voters for Itamar Ben-Gvir – they discuss everything, with an exhausting focus on relations with ‘the others’, the Palestinians in Gaza.

Ein Habesor heard on 7 October that the yellow gates marking the boundary of the moshav had been stormed, but the terrorists failed to get in. It was a matter of seconds; survival is often a matter of chance when it doesn’t have time to become a matter of will. “That day I thought I didn’t want to know anything more about them,” says Mina, speaking of the inhabitants of Gaza, “but now that’s no longer the case.” Everyone feels the same way she does, including Avivit, who has come from Be’eri, one of the kibbutzim that were massacred. Avivit has a faint voice; often, when she tries to speak, she is drowned out by others. In her account, the government’s responsibility takes precedence over that of those who came from Gaza to kill; perhaps she believes this, perhaps it is a form of self-protection. “My family didn’t suffer any losses. But when I came out of the mamad – the shelter room – I realised I was stepping into a completely different world,” she says, opening the imaginary door in front of her. With long grey hair and a gaunt face, Avivit speaks of peace as the only choice – sometimes a forced one, but one that must be sought with every last ounce of strength – and she seems utterly exhausted.

Everyone present agrees on one point: on 27 October, Israel needs change and a prime minister who loves the country. “Bibi has placed himself above Israel; he does not look after it. The country, on the other hand, needs care; it must heal.” The Prime Minister is far away; he hasn’t even set foot in these parts, and his election posters are nowhere to be seen: they stop at the roundabout near Sderot station and don’t go much further. Whilst everyone agrees on Bibi’s lack of care, there is a polite disagreement over the meaning of the word ‘peace’: “To make peace, it takes two sides, and we must be the ones to take the first step.” Avivit is not concerned that civilians entered her kibbutz alongside Hamas; she believes that if we look, if we investigate, we can find someone to talk to about peace even in Gaza. “Someone has to start, and it has always been the better-off side that does so.” Being better off in Ein Habesor is a material rather than a mental matter; the Israelis are better off, they have democracy, they are in a privileged position, but Mina raises a point: “It’s true that in Gaza they are oppressed by Hamas, but they have never even rebelled. They are not the only oppressed people in the world; the Iranians had the courage to protest and die to free themselves from the regime.” Mina is thinking of a more practical issue; she believes moral values are at stake, which should therefore lead any Israeli not to reject the idea of dialogue. And then there are the existential implications: everyone will remain on that patch of land – either we choose all-out war or we try for peace.

Linguistic nuances divide this group; some use the term ‘peace’, while the more realistic among them prefer ‘agreement’. ‘Yes, just like with Egypt,’ says Sara. She, too, is campaigning for the Democrats; she is not wearing the T-shirt, but she has brought it with her. There are those who detest the Prime Minister so much that they take full blame for Israel’s actions, and others who choose to weigh up every word. Amidst the desert sands, electoral expectations are simmering. Still wearing his sky-blue T-shirt, Moshe arrives from Kibbutz Gevuot; he is a gentleman with snow-white hair and a tanned complexion, two kind, dreamy eyes that seem to belong to someone half his age. He has the most harrowing story to tell: “My daughter Hagar was abducted in Kfar Aza along with my three grandchildren and her neighbours’ daughter. They’ve all come back.” Before 7 October, Moshe used to go and collect Palestinians from Gaza to take them to hospital when they needed it. “I told my daughter I didn’t know if I’d be able to do it anymore, and she – who never wanted to tell us what happened to her that day or what she went through whilst in captivity – told me that, when it was possible, I should start doing it again. She told me that even whilst she was being held hostage, she never stopped feeling compassion for them”, the others, the Palestinians from Gaza. Listening to her, the peace that everyone is calling for just a stone’s throw from the Strip seems like an incurable illusion; it seems like a jumper that’s been washed too many times and is now faded and misshapen – it can no longer be worn because it’s so hard to tell where the neckline is and where the sleeves are – but it’s the only one possible, they say here, and so it’s necessary. ‘Agreement’, without frills, is perhaps the right term from which to start again.