This is the third in a series, “Uprooted.” Each column is a curated monologue from an individual among the tens of thousands of internally displaced Israelis during the war with Hamas who were evacuated from the country’s northern border and the Gaza envelope.
Three years ago, I finally made my dream come true and moved to Israel from Argentina. I was raised in the Jewish community, went to a Jewish high school, and am a graduate of Hashomer Hatzair [a Labor Zionist, secular Jewish youth movement]. My family, including my grandma, uncles, and cousins, made aliyah about two decades ago, and visiting them with my parents was a regular thing when I was a kid.
You could say that Kibbutz Ein Hashlosha is like my childhood neighborhood. It’s a small community of around 220 people, and it feels like one big family, a close-knit community. Almost everyone there is from South America, and the kibbutz was founded by Zionist immigrants from Uruguay and Argentina.
When I first got to Israel, I volunteered in the army for a few months. After finishing my service, I enrolled in a year-long program for new citizens to brush up on my Hebrew. A year ago, I got accepted to a bachelor’s program at Ben-Gurion University in Beersheba, and I was excited about starting my sophomore year in Politics, Government and Economics. Unfortunately, the beginning of the academic year for Israel’s universities got pushed back. It’s a shame, I was really looking forward to it.
I have rented an apartment in Beersheba, but nearly every weekend, I return to my home in the kibbutz.
Saturday, October 7
Ahead of the High Holidays, my parents came from Argentina to visit. Initially, I planned to stay in the kibbutz for two weeks and then return to Beersheba on Sunday. They got a house in the kibbutz for their visit, and on Simchat Torah eve, a Friday, we had dinner together. Unexpectedly, I ended up spending the night.
At 6:30 in the morning, we were awoken by sirens. It was the first time my parents experienced a “red alert.” I explained to them in Spanish that we needed to head to the safe room, where my sister usually sleeps. I told them that we had 15 seconds to get there, lock the door and window, and then wait for 10 minutes after the Iron Dome interception before we could come out.
Damage done to Kibbutz Ein Hashlosha during the October 7 massacre. (Facebook/ used in accordance with Clause 27a of the Copyright Law/ via Zman)
We have a closed WhatsApp group for the kibbutz, and members began updating each other on the situation. I turned on the TV news, and it soon became clear that something out of the ordinary was happening — there was an infiltration of terrorists into the “Otef,” the Gaza envelope [the populated areas within 7 kilometers of the Gaza Strip border]. A WhatsApp message alerted us to the possibility of terrorists infiltrating the kibbutz, and we were instructed to lock ourselves in the safe room. I remember feeling glad that, at least, the entire family would be together.
After some time, we started hearing gunfire, screams, smelling burning things… Occasionally, I experience these mental gaps; I forget, maybe as a result of the trauma. At a certain point, my mom left the safe room to get a glass of water. Suddenly, through the kitchen window, she spotted two men speaking in Arabic, carrying Kalashnikovs and RPGs. She ran back to the safe room and said that we needed to be absolutely quiet, turn off all our devices, and lock ourselves in.
Luckily, the safe room’s door had a secure locking mechanism. We locked both the door and the iron window and tried to call and message everyone we knew. We reached out to the police and the army as well, but the reception was bad. It later turned out that Hamas had managed to sabotage communications.
The loud voices from outside were now inside the house
I can’t say how much time passed from when my mom rushed back into the safe room to when we heard the kitchen window shattering. The loud voices from outside were now inside the house.
I felt really scared, but it wasn’t for myself; it was for my family. There was this mix of guilt and responsibility. Why did they have to go through this while visiting me? Why did it happen right when they came for a vacation to see their son after almost a year? I worried about their safety, even though I was armed.
Looking back, I don’t know why I took my gun with me when I went out to them on Friday evening. I’m not sure what I expected or if it was just part of a routine. Luckily, my dad managed to grab a knife from the kitchen before we locked ourselves in the safe room.
Guido Cohen. (Dafna Talmon)
We heard them moving around the house, and then they tried to break into the safe room. They tried repeatedly, but the door was securely locked, and we were holding the handle tightly. I gripped it and the lock with all my strength. In that moment, you lose touch with reality. I was on autopilot, and I remember thinking that anything could happen, regardless of my actions.
The terrorists tried to break into the safe room until they eventually gave up. This went on for an hour, maybe more – I’m not exactly sure. During this time, when I lost my sense of time, they completely wrecked the house. They smashed things, stole our identity cards, my parents’ passports, and even took magnets from the fridge with pictures that my parents had brought as a gift. Maybe they realized they couldn’t execute their original plan, so they decided to “at least” destroy the house.
We heard them moving around the house, and then they tried to break into the safe room
In some cases, people had their houses burned, forcing them to escape through the windows. A close friend of my grandmother couldn’t escape and died from smoke inhalation. The civilian security coordinator, Ram Negbi, was the first to be killed. The kibbutz’s local rapid response unit had only three members with three weapons against about 50 terrorists who had infiltrated the kibbutz. They tried to call for help, but help got there too late. Many houses were destroyed and burned, and the terrorists fired in all directions. Damage beyond description.
We spent 15 hours in the safe room after the terrorists left, without water and food. Then, we heard knocks on the door and voices in Hebrew saying, “It’s the army.” We kept silent; couldn’t trust anyone. Even when they called out our names – mine, my sister’s, and my parents’ – I still didn’t open the door.
IDF soldiers evacuate residents of Kibbutz Ein Hashlosha on October 8. (Facebook/ used in accordance with Clause 27a of the Copyright Law/ via Zman)
The soldiers stood by the window and the door of the safe room. I asked that they recite the “Shema Yisrael” prayer, and they did — in its entirety. I opened the window slightly and saw the faces of young men who could have been my friends. Their expressions were tense, uncertain about what they would find inside. I reassured them. I said, “Everyone here is alive and well, come in,” and then opened the door.
The moment I saw their faces, it felt like I was coming back to life. We hugged and kissed them, thanked them for their arrival, but we were also angry. What took you so long? But I knew that the soldiers were not to blame. They then told us to pack a suitcase and prepare for evacuation.
What did you pack to take with you?
Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about what to take. We simply opened the closets and grabbed whatever we could. I handed the key to my place to one of the soldiers, asking him to pack a suitcase for me since they didn’t allow me to go there. After about 20 minutes, he came back with my suitcase, and we waited another hour and a half until they gave the green light for our evacuation.
On Sunday, at 10 am, we finally left the safe room – more than 24 hours after we had entered it. Later that afternoon, kibbutz members were transported to Eilat in buses and private cars.
We simply opened the closets and grabbed whatever we could
As we left the house, we saw things that I wouldn’t wish on anyone to see. Burned houses and destruction. Death and so much blood. The beauty of the kibbutz with its family atmosphere and joy, it all looked like a horror movie. Seven kibbutz members were murdered on October 7.
The evacuation
We arrived in Eilat on Sunday night, and since then, I’ve lost track of time. It’s challenging to recall the duration from locking ourselves in the safe room until we left. My mind is still there, even as my soul struggles to be present.
I have a rented apartment in Beersheba, but I prefer to stay with my parents. They have the option to return to Argentina, but the current situation there gives them pause. Things aren’t simple there, either. They are even thinking of making aliyah.
I am very sad. I want to continue living in the kibbutz, but I know that we need a huge shift in perspective. We, as citizens of this country, need to formulate a new contract. What is important to us? What is worth our time and attention, our fights and arguments?
The entrance to Kibbutz Ein Hashlosha. (Courtesy of the kibbutz)
People have gone through and are still experiencing terrible suffering following the October 7 events. We need to be more patient and tolerant – both among ourselves and in the relationship between the state and its people.
In recent months, I have seen so much violence on the streets, in demonstrations. This immense rift scares me, because, in the end, we are all human beings. It may sound trivial, but it’s not. I always try to see the glass half full, and following this harrowing experience – which I can only describe as a holocaust – something needs to change. Priorities need to shift.
I moved to Israel through aliyah, driven by a strong love for the country and a commitment to the vision of Zionism. But the state has left us to fend for ourselves. I am disappointed with the state institutions and the army, but not with the soldiers. They are truly heroes. My disillusionment is directed at the leaders of our country. Despite enduring numerous attacks in recent years, I feel that our safety was not prioritized. The situation has become untenable.
I am disappointed with the state institutions and the army, but not with the soldiers. They are truly heroes
In my opinion, the residents of the Otef communities and all Israeli citizens should consider forging a new understanding with the state. Currently, it’s hard for me to trust the authorities and the government again. Who guarantees our safe return to the kibbutz, and how can we trust those responsible for our protection after what happened?
How does daily life look?
Many people look lost as if they’ve misplaced their essence and the meaning of their existence. I see people wandering around the hotel, moving from place to place, constantly on their phones, their expressions vacant and lost. It’s sad to see people who were once joyful and full of life now looking overwhelmed. It’s truly heartbreaking.
Some people visit the kibbutz from time to time to milk the cows, and they have to work with only half the usual staff. The same goes for the chicken coops, the fields, landscaping, and the maintenance of the kibbutz facilities.
They set up tents outside the hotel that function as daycare centers for young children and classrooms for elementary school students, but everything still feels very partial and makeshift.
What do you miss the most?
I miss the past. They took our past from us. I see my younger cousins who lost friends from school. Friends who were murdered or kidnapped. Kids who saw everything they grew up with and everything familiar to them disappear before their very eyes. We were a joyful community. That’s the right word. Joyful. Connected and joyful.
Guido Cohen. (Dafna Talmon)
The future
I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if people will be able to return to their lives fully – and I don’t just mean life within the kibbutz, but life in general. It’s hard to grasp this new reality, and it’s hard to imagine a future.
I can’t see the future right now. Everything is blocked. It’s hard for me to see the innocent faces of the children and think about the future we are leaving for them.
We’re surrounded by many good-hearted people offering comfort and support – and I truly appreciate them. Yet, this isn’t our place, not our home, not our familiar scenes and nature.
What’s missing is a sense of meaning, an essence deeply connected to a physical place. Ultimately, we are war refugees – and like all war refugees, we yearn to go home. Hoping for a reset, a return to some semblance of a starting point.
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December 30, 2023 at 08:50PM
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Uprooted: Guido Cohen, 24, from Kibbutz Ein Hashlosha. This is his story - The Times of Israel
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