Israel’s project will not come to a halt on 27 October

Nir Oz, from our correspondent. The lion roars; he is enormous and majestic, rising from the sand of the Negev desert, where he stands firmly on his paws, gazing towards Khan Younis. He is mighty; he does not appear to be about to pounce. His muscular tension is that of one clinging to the ground, to the sand, to Israel – he is defending. The statue looks straight towards the Gaza Strip; it stands between Nir Oz and Magen, two of the kibbutzim attacked on 7 October, and today the reddish lion sends a message: this cannot happen again; this is Israel. Here, pacifism is armed, just as in Ukraine; it is a sacrifice, not a belief, and the lion of Nir Oz and Magen today aims to be stronger than those barriers that failed three years ago, when Hamas arrived at 6.29 a.m. with rockets and terrorists to take the border communities by surprise whilst they were still in their beds. Today, those communities are being reborn, rebuilt, and their inhabitants are changing. They remain where they have always been, and the lion is a symbol of a fresh start, of strength. Anger has no part in this; it has no place here. It has already been fully expended, against everyone. Nor is there any place for revenge; the kibbutzim that were attacked have no time for it. The lion warns; it does not look away; it declares with savage simplicity that it will not leave those sands; it is large enough to be seen from afar, even from Khan Younis, the town where Yahya Sinwar was born. 

Khan Younis is also the town where some residents of Nir Oz were taken hostage, barefoot, with their hands tied, knowing nothing of what they had left behind. Among those abducted that day was Gadi Moses, a miniature lion. Enormous hands, sun-baked skin, eyes that seem to see and re-see everything, over and over again. Gadi Moses was abducted on 7 October and taken to Khan Younis, nine kilometres from his home. He was seized by force, put on a motorbike and abducted. He no longer wishes to recount what happened to him – not so much because of the pain, the trauma or the losses he later discovered he had suffered whilst in captivity, but because that is the past; it must be remembered but also left behind. That is why he has returned to Nir Oz, to help revive the kibbutz. The little lion spends his evenings at the kibbutz pub amongst friends, old-timers and newcomers. “Do you know who he is?”, everyone points at him, looks at him, goes over to greet him, asks for advice. It’s impossible not to know who he is. He talks, takes a moment for everyone, offers whisky and jokes. Gadi Moses builds, rebuilds; he is eighty-two years old and lives as if he had lived less than half his life – it’s all still ahead of him. “I don’t feel like giving interviews any more; they put words in my mouth that I didn’t say.” Over the past three years, even the words of a hostage have been subject to speculation. Some have sought to make him the face of anti-government sentiment, others the face of forgiveness, and others still the driving force behind a possible new coexistence. Moses refuses to be pigeonholed; he cannot fit into any category. He has made his choice, which is in itself an act of defiance against Hamas’s plan: to return to the kibbutz he built and rebuild it. He has done the most revolutionary thing of all and has dared to speak of the ‘future’ ever since the day he returned. “Before releasing me, they took me to a grave that had already been dug,” Moses recounts how they tried to shatter his spirit right up until the very last moment of his captivity, without succeeding. The struggle takes place every second; resistance is a tapestry being woven, and he resisted – he sang the Israeli national anthem in front of his captors, walked out with his head held high, and returned to his home. A pioneer twice over, he is not leaving Nir Oz; the kibbutz is now debating what to leave in a state of ruin—burned and shattered—as a reminder and a starting point. Perhaps a few destroyed houses, perhaps a few walls, but the kibbutz does not need to see rubble to relive that day. Everyone has it before their eyes, even those who have only just arrived to help repopulate the place. “Many of the families with children have left and don’t want to come back,” says Tamar, who, on the other hand, has come here with her fiancé to stay. They are getting married in May and are among the new faces who already feel at home. This evening, Galid Kariv arrived to greet Gadi Moses and the kibbutz; he is a Democratic candidate for Yair Golan, a Reform rabbi, and in this part of the country he finds his audience and his natural environment.

Excitement is building ahead of the elections; the countdown is on. Gadi Moses’s nephew, who has recently returned from IndNegev – a festival in the middle of the desert where young people sang and danced to ‘Shir la Shalom’, the song for peace – looks up at the sky as he whispers, ‘just a few more days, a few days, a few days’, smiling confidently, his face radiant. In this gesture, he places his trust in God, but then corrects himself: “No, I’m not religious.” The kibbutz’s ongoing transformation, however, has little to do with what will happen at the ballot box on 27 October; Nir Oz has been reborn from disaster, erasing the traces of death from the streets whilst keeping them all beneath the surface. It has no need to repress these memories, nor does it wish to; it sees the vote as a step towards the future – one of many it is taking and will take in any case. The pub, packed with people and where one walks barefoot, is near the swimming pool from which Moses was abducted. All around, little lights make it look like a Christmas village. The truth is that so much death in communities brimming with life cannot endure, and whilst further away from the Strip a part of Israel still dwells in trauma, here, on the other hand, life goes on – out of impulse, out of resolve, not merely out of necessity. Nir Oz’s restlessness is methodical; it is contagious; it is a surge of energy; it is will; it is strength; it is the lion poised on the sands of the Negev. This part of the country, which everyone rushed to write about after 7 October, was subsequently forgotten, abandoned and exploited. Yet it remains the country’s front line, overlooking Gaza. It has remained here with its convictions, steadfast and determined. Its role models have not changed: Gadi Moses is here; he is the story; he is the centre of it all; he takes care to teach about the future. “These days, one must be careful when using the word ‘peace’; it can be misinterpreted.” It is clear that when Moses says he does not hate his captors – he was held hostage by Islamic Jihad, which took part in the Hamas pogrom – he does not do so out of naivety, political conviction or unarmed pacifism; he does so because he has no time. It’s all part of a plan: the vote is a plan, Nir Oz is a plan, the Negev is a plan – it always has been. And plans take time; everything else takes a back seat. In the kibbutz, people are talking about the elections, and there is an absence that shows just how differently people think here: Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s name is never mentioned. There is no time for him here either. Instead, the talk is of trust in the army, which will struggle to rebuild itself. Some young men, reservists since 7 October, confirm that even from within, this trust is fraying. It is a profound issue, deeper than politics, and not one that is easy to address in Israel; the country is one big army, the soldiers are sons and daughters, and it is the great unspoken truth behind the question for which there is still no answer: where was the IDF on 7 October? In Nir Oz, in fact, there is an answer: it wasn’t here.

In the kibbutzim of the Otef Gaza – the area surrounding the Strip – a vote is just a vote. It has no existential significance. The election is rooted, in part, in what these communities have endured in recent years, but it lacks the sense of identity that it holds for Tel Aviv – the city of constant demonstrations, of the struggle against the government, of the vital clash which, whilst it certainly exists and is felt, is tied to the country’s future. Here and there in the Negev, camps spring up of people determined to enter and settle in the Strip, but the kibbutzim pay them no heed; they embody the spirit of the desert, and the vast majority remain here. They all resemble one another somewhat, and they are changing together.

“We are here not because the Bible says so, but because we have tended to every grain of sand,” says Lital, who moved to Kibbutz Gevim, a community on the outskirts of Sderot, which terrorists attempted to attack, stopping at the yellow entrance gates whilst killing two residents. “We wake up in the morning and think about our responsibilities; we cannot turn down the volume of our concern.” Lital was not born in Gevim, nor was she born on a kibbutz; she chose to live there, like most young people in this place. She did so because “here there is care, there is education. Sometimes I wonder if it’s right for a good mother to stay after what’s happened, but I remain convinced that precisely because we live so close to the border, we’re under constant pressure to look after everything.” Gevim exudes care, as is often the case in kibbutzim. Its greenery and its houses stand in stark contrast to the tower blocks of nearby Sderot. Next to Lital is Tsila, a woman who seems to have been through it all but who considers it pointless to talk about it.

“My father was killed during the War of Independence; I grew up believing that Arabs were mad. Today I vote for the Democrats because I believe they are the right party to look after that section of the population.” Tsila is the story of Gevim, from the days when you lived on a kibbutz if you knew how to do manual labour, “but I wasn’t cut out for it,” she says with a smile, looking at her hands, “then I found a job as a teacher”. The kibbutzim are a project, and in a country that was born precisely as a way of life, they represent its very foundation. They need to be studied; one has to live within them. They are places where old and new generations mingle; everyone leaves their front door open, despite 7 October. Trust in the project is unshakeable; not even scepticism towards the government can break it.

Gevim is situated in the part of the Gaza Strip known as Sha’ar Negev, the gateway to the Negev. There is a saying that goes: “Sha’ar Negev is 95 per cent paradise and 5 per cent hell”. Lital says: “On 7 October, that 5 per cent of hell was very profound.” It was only natural that the Hamas attack would change the area, but what is surprising is that precisely where the terrorists arrived and where the trauma still lies beneath the sand, it seems that everyone has taken a step forward. There have been many changes compared to three years ago; the absence of Palestinians is also noticeable. The Gazans who crossed the border used to come to work in the area; they were bricklayers, looked after animals, and some later provided Hamas with a map of the kibbutzim or took part in the assault. Even in Gevim there was a worker from Gaza who had by then become part of the community. A cloud of suspicion has now fallen over him. “We’d given him a bed; he’d join us at our get-togethers; if his family needed anything, we’d do everything we could to help him,” says Sharon. “He disappeared that day. He never used to go back to Gaza when he had a job to finish.” Sharon has always been on the left: “I grew up thinking we were all equal, that we should trust everyone. Now I can’t do that anymore. I think I’ll vote for Eisenkot, and for someone who has looked to the far left for years, that’s a radical change.” For her, 7 October was a betrayal. She didn’t grow up on the kibbutz; living here was a choice she made, and she wants to stay. She finds it hard to admit her change of heart; she says it with pain, almost as if the loss of trust leaves her feeling exhausted and remorseful: “He once told me,” she says, speaking of the Palestinian who worked at Gevim, “‘when you look us in the eye, you can see that you’re afraid. That’s our advantage.’ I think he was right, and we must overcome that fear.” The bombing of Gaza has not erased that sentiment, but her desire is to move forward, to reclaim the future and the Negev, and her vote also signifies this.

Like Sharon, Avivit came to Kibbutz Gevim from elsewhere – for her family, her children, and to build a life. Politics is not a subject she is passionate about, but she has a very clear idea of where she wants to go: “War is not an operating theatre. I used to believe in coexistence, and I worked towards it; now I’m not saying it’s impossible, but at the moment it’s not realistic.” First we must heal from within; then we can begin to heal our relationships with others. “We must return to being the nation of start-ups, the oasis we once were. I’m not saying we’re not that anymore, but it’s different; many things have changed, and they’ve been changing for some time.” Netanyahu isn’t an obsession here, but everyone shares a common view of him, which Avivit sums up as follows: “All honest men, after failing, have stepped down. He hasn’t.”

Israel is an idea; everyone has a vision in their mind of what they would like the country to be. Everyone has travelled across the country in search of, or in pursuit of, that idea of Israel. Not merely to live there, but also to build it. In Israel, one does not choose a place to settle; one moves about, follows a set of values, and shapes the future. The country has always been at odds over that vision of the future; everything has been a matter of existence and identity. Zohran and his wife lived in Be’er Sheva and fled after the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzak Rabin. “Suddenly we heard people saying it was right, that it was a good thing. So we fled; we looked for a place to stay, a place to build a life, and we came to Gevim. Better to have Gaza nearby than to hear such a thought.” Zohran won’t say who he’ll vote for, but “if I had the courage, I’d vote for Ra’am”, the Arab party led by the dentist Mansour Abbas, which the former police chief Yoav Segalovitz has joined. “But I lack the courage; I lack the conviction. Yet that’s where it all begins.” There is an internal rift to heal. There are many, on closer inspection. This part of the country, which refuses to abandon the border with Gaza, rejects the idea that a fringe of the Israeli population might use violence against Palestinians in the West Bank in the name of the very same Israel that is being defended here. The violent settlers have been dubbed ‘Youth of the Hills’ by the press, and many Israelis find this label irritating; it carries a bucolic connotation that the perpetrators do not deserve, and it lends itself to a mythologising that instead reveals a stateless segment of the country. In Hebrew, they are called Noar HaGvaot, and some suggest that it would be more fitting to give them a different name – simply by changing the ‘g’ to a ‘z’: Noar HaZvaot, the ‘Youth of Violence’, of horrors, of atrocities.

After three years of wars against Hamas, against Hezbollah, against the Houthis and against the Islamic Republic of Iran, the country has cast a vote that prompts it to look inwards, to become self-absorbed. No one in the election campaign spoke of relations with the Palestinians; some, however, did speak of relations with the Arabs of Israel, who make up twenty per cent of the population. For those like Sharon in Gevim, for whom all hope of dialogue with the Palestinians has vanished, the country’s Arab population is a different matter altogether. That is why Tsila, Zohar and others are voting with them in mind as well. In Arab towns such as Lod, Ramla or Jaffa – the old part of Tel Aviv – the election campaign is unfolding just as it is in the rest of the country. The Arab vote is valuable, and although there are no posters for their own parties, those of the other parties are clearly visible. All parties are targeting this 20 per cent of the population who vote less than others, who keep to themselves, but who need to be brought on board. At the entrance to Lod market there is a café displaying a huge Israeli flag and a portrait of Rabin; inside, Jews and Muslims work together, speaking Hebrew and Arabic. In the city, coexistence is far from straightforward, but in this place a balance has been struck. In Jaffa, on the other hand, you’ll find Yair Golan’s leaflets in Arabic; the Democrats are among the few open to a government including Arab parties, provided they declare themselves Zionists, whilst the rest of the opposition is reluctant, or knows that making such a declaration won’t win them votes. Yet the healing of internal wounds also lies here.

What is perceived as a vote on 7 October – as an election born of drama, a vote born of trauma – is in reality the culmination of an internal conflict that began amidst the street demonstrations in Tel Aviv against the government and the reform of the Supreme Court. Years have been spent wondering where Israel was heading, who Israel was, what remained of the project, and who was writing it. Tel Aviv continues to shout and to organise demonstrations, revealing a need to protest that it cannot exhaust and from which it hopes to be freed on 27 October. A protest born of anger and inertia that has changed its colours, meaning and demands, and is reworking old slogans, seeking fulfilment in a vote to which it ascribes a redemptive value. “We need the right mission,” says a protester at last Saturday’s demonstration – the last before the elections – held in Tel Aviv’s Hostages’ Square, which every now and then comes back to life, filling up once more, almost as if the people of Tel Aviv were unable to let it fade into the past along with the vigils for the release of the Israelis kidnapped by Hamas. Some have remained in that vigil. The latest protest takes place amidst a sea of Israeli flags, a few yellow ribbons symbolising the hostages and symbols of the opposition parties, calling for a commission of inquiry to establish who was responsible for the events of 7 October. Tel Aviv has been shaped by demonstrations in recent years – regular, orderly, persistent. Ofir, the protester calling for ‘a just mission’ and holding a placard reading ‘let’s not forget 7 October’, explains what he means more clearly: ‘We need someone to guide our children towards the causes that matter.’ The cause, the mission, the project. Israel.