My October 7 Wake-Up Call
From the Desk of Brenda Kazan, Board Member
Like the rest of world Jewry, I awoke to the news on October 7, 2023 with shock, fear, worry, and dread. I immediately looked to my social media feeds to find out more. Surely the IDF will tamp this down in no time. Where is the organized military? What is happening? Then my focus switched to the dread of the anti-Semitism to follow. History has taught us. It always is the fault of the Jews.
And like the rest of world Jewry, I wanted to help. At first it was donations, then Amazon orders to random people in Brooklyn or Queens who had a brother who knows someone going to Israel and can take packages. So many packages…But it wasn’t enough.
I grew up in the heyday of Zionist youth groups and summer camps: hanging out in our “dirah,” going to the Chader Ohel, and enjoying “rikud.” After high school, I spent a gap year in Israel with Young Judea. This was without a doubt the most meaningful event of my childhood and young adulthood. Fast forward to the pandemic. I had fallen out of touch with many of my year course friends and hadn’t been back to Israel – despite my pledge to make Aliyah in 1982. When my friend, Adam, called and said we were going to have a Zoomunion with everyone I was thrilled. Our online reunion turned into a real one, and in 2022 I returned to Israel with 16 of my original 25-year course friends. Although Israel had changed greatly in the 40 years, I had been away, our friendships picked right up where we left them on that Tel Aviv beach so long ago. And, not surprising to many, my love for Israel came back hard and strong.
I needed to go to Israel and do something after Oct. 7. I discovered the Facebook group, “Sword of Iron,” and immediately stalked the postings. I was not alone. I reached out to several women who wanted to go, and we compared calendars. I also bugged every friend and family member looking for someone to go with. Several expressed fear about going into a war zone. I did not feel any anxiety or fear about going. I would tell folks that Israel is safe, and with sirens, safe rooms, and bomb shelters, not to mention the Iron Dome…I knew I would be okay. I settled on the idea of going alone. From my Facebook lurking, I planned on staying in Tel Aviv at the Abraham Hostel or Maxim Hotel. I would take Leket buses to the kibbutzim and moshavim in the South and meet other volunteers. Then I saw a post by Wendy Yaniv. She lives in Atlanta, is an American Israeli, used to live in Tel Aviv, and has led many multi-faith tour groups in Israel. She said she was bringing a group of women in January 2024 and welcomes anyone else who wants to go. She was having a Zoom meeting the next night, and I made plans to attend.
As soon as Wendy said she is thinking we will stay in Tel Aviv at the Abraham Hostel and go on the Leket buses to the Gaza envelope to help harvest, I knew she was my ride or die.
There were eight of us. We came from Connecticut, Oregon, Arizona, Georgia, and Pennsylvania. We are all around the same age and had very similar ideas about how we wanted this trip to go.
This time we were the ones schlepping bags of gear for the soldiers.
I met Wendy and Lori at JFK; the rest met us at Ben Gurion or at the hostel. We hopped into a taxi and the first of [i]many stories started. Our driver fed soldiers at the Gaza border every Shabbat. He would bring meat and salads and barbecue so they could have a hot meal. He did this with his family. This was not an organized meal with a spreadsheet and organizer. This was a father and grandfather feeding young men and women who could be his sons and daughters. After getting settled at the hostel, we took items to the Expo building in Tel Aviv where there was a distribution center for displaced families. Again, not set up by any official organization, just some women who saw a need. We also brought some of the gear we brought to a “chamal” set up in a synagogue basement in the middle of Tel Aviv. Army units would text what they needed and where they were. The people running it would make packages, and others would deliver. This was also a homegrown group. One day we cooked food and packaged meals for families at Hostage Square and soldiers. We did this at Citrus and Salt, an upscale restaurant and cooking school turned meal delivery service. I was repeatedly awestruck by the resilience, creativity, and productivity of everyone we met. The government seemed silent and impotent. The people were EVERYTHING.
Of course we helped harvest. Our first trip on the Leket bus was to a moshav that was hard hit by Hamas. Many of the farm owners and workers were murdered. The moshav was eerily silent, but the crops were bursting. We heard from the owner that the night before the attack, the Bibas family had dinner at their home. They often celebrated Shabbat together because he and Yarden Bibas were good friends. We picked tomatoes and helped string up the vines for the next crop.
A few days later, we went to another moshav and picked clementines. In between, a few of us were taken on a field trip by a former military commander and current friend of Wendy, Kobi Meron. His son was embedded in a kibbutz down south, and they needed warm clothes. They were part of a special forces unit that worked at night. It was January, and they didn’t have gloves, balaclavas, or even warm fleece tops. Wendy and Lori went shopping, and Patty and I joined them for the delivery. On the way down, we stopped at Sderot, a newish town about a mile from the Gaza border. This town was built to encourage families to move out of the center and help develop the desert. They were given tax incentives; the houses were big, and the town had a robust security system that let them know terrorists had breached the town and gave most residents time to flee. It was like a ghost town, laundry still on the line, bikes left in the middle of the street, and toys on the lawn.
At the end of our second week, I said goodbye to my new sisters in arms, headed up to the Golan to spend Shabbat with my cousins, and then headed back to Tucson. The only time I had to go to a safe room was at my cousin’s house by the Syrian border. An incoming rocket hit the road leading into their moshav. It shook the house, but that was it. When one of my cousin’s neighbors thanked me for coming and asked how I could come to Israel at such a time, I said to her, “How could I not?”
I came home and braced myself for re-entry. I left a country that, despite having been brutally attacked, rose up and created systems for its people to help each other. Everyone was exhausted, yet everyone kept showing up. I returned to a country and a community where protests felt discordant, contrary to all that I had experienced. Jewish students were harassed by chants of “From the river, to the sea.” People were being attacked for wearing a Star of David or a kippah. We saw attacks on free speech. And still, three years later, reports of antisemitic incidents are at an all-time high. It’s easy to feel as though the institutions designed to protect us have failed.
Over the last three years, I’ve had many difficult conversations with friends. I’ve had to take breaks from some and agree to disagree with others. Friends have also reached out and asked good questions about Israel, the conflict, and history. I welcome these interactions and recognize the complexity of the land we call home.
Like our brothers and sisters in Israel, we need to step up, push past our exhaustion, and find our voice to reclaim the narrative. Never again is now.