This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
Recently, I went to a branch of the Israeli Department of Motor Vehicles in the city of Yokne’am Illit. I arrived twenty minutes before my appointment, and the security guard told me I’d have to wait outside until I was called. There were two connected chairs by the door. One was occupied by an elegant woman in her seventies. I took the other one.
She explained to me that her husband was inside, keeping his own appointment. She asked me where I was from. I told her I was from Zichron Ya’akov, a town nearby, and inquired whether she was local to this area.
She smiled a tragic smile and gave a weary shake of her head.
“I’m from Nahal Oz,” she said.
A chill ran through me, as it would through all Israelis since October 7. Nahal Oz is a name that is now etched in crude red letters in our collective psyche.
A kibbutz situated a few hundred meters from the Gaza Strip, Nahal Oz was invaded by hordes of Hamas terrorists on October 7. The terrorists murdered fifteen kibbutz members and kidnapped eight more.
The woman in the seat beside mine had been a resident of the kibbutz for ten years. She had moved there with her husband. On October 7, they huddled in their safe room — a room made of reinforced concrete designed to withstand rocket blasts — while outside, terrorists rampaged through the kibbutz.
The woman and her husband had expected the IDF to arrive swiftly. But it took hours before Israeli soldiers began battling the terrorists who were killing, maiming, and kidnapping, and who recorded their atrocities on video. No one can satisfactorily explain this delay to Israelis.
“At one point my husband went out,” the woman said. She heard him scream soon after, and was certain he had been killed and that the terrorists would be coming for her next.
He hadn’t been killed. He was injured in the arm. Bleeding, he returned to the safe room, where he proceeded to hold the steel handle of the room closed for the next two hours. You see, safe rooms cannot be locked. This is so rescue responders could open the door from the outside in case the structure was damaged in a rocket attack. Israeli safe rooms aren’t designed to keep out terrorists. No one imagined this would be necessary.
They remained in their safe room for over seven hours — the longest seven hours in her seventy-something years. Even when soldiers finally entered their home, her husband did not let go of the handle. Not until he heard voices speaking in Hebrew.
She told me how the soldiers evacuated the kibbutz. The residents who had escaped death or serious injury were loaded onto buses and spirited away from their battle-scarred community. She ended up living near Yokne’am Illit, close to her son.
“Will you ever go back to Nahal Oz?” I asked.
A resolute shake of her head. “Never. I will never go back. It is the most beautiful place. But I will not live there again.”
Her husband emerged then. He had finished his business. We exchanged hellos, and I expected the woman to rise from her chair, bid me goodbye, and leave me behind with my thoughts, but she remained seated. Sensing, perhaps, the nature of our talk, her husband ventured away and into a flower shop.
“I am not the same,” she told me. “I am not the person I was before October 7. I am still in treatment, but so far it hasn’t helped all that much.”
Just like she will never go back to Nahal Oz, she will never go back to the person she used to be before.
As we were parting, it occurred to me that for years to come, schoolchildren in Israel will gather in auditoriums to listen to the harrowing tales of survivors of October 7, just as my schoolmates and I used to listen to survivors of the Holocaust. While the former is in no way the equivalent of the latter, it is an experience that has left an indelible mark on us all, and one that will continue to reverberate in our culture, education system, and politics.
I watched the woman and her husband walk away, side by side. Both were bent by age, and perhaps also by their trauma. These days, Israel in its entirety often feels bent by its national trauma as well. There is great energy in the country, a powerful determination to emerge triumphant from this war. But there is also a pall, an invisible weight that pushes down on our shoulders. Some residents will go back to Nahal Oz, and new people will move there, too. Other ravaged communities will be rebuilt and renewed. But just like the survivor I’d spoken with, Israel is not the same as it was before October 7. I doubt it ever will be.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Jonathan Dunsky is the author of the Adam Lapid historical mysteries series and the standalone thriller The Payback Girl. Before turning to writing, Jonathan served for four years in the Israeli Defense Forces and worked in the high-tech and Internet industries. He resides in Israel with his wife and two sons.
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