Author: orly.soker

He throws himself onto the blue armchair in the apartment, exhausted. He’s alone. There’s no one to talk to right now, and he has no desire to hear from the world. Not long ago, he broke up with his girlfriend, and now he’s returning to focus on the most important goal of all – his health. He needs to recover from a “chronic” illness that he has dealt with for years. At that very moment, there’s a class at the college with a Russian teacher. She is pedantic and strict. He’s already given up on it. “A waste of time and energy,” he thinks. Today’s about running and making dinner.

He tidies up the clothes scattered on the couch and reflects on where to run. Should he stick to the familiar four kilometers along Mefalsim’s perimeter fence? Or maybe head toward the Black Arrow (Memorial for Israeli raids responding to Gaza attacks in the 1950s )? Should he invite friends to join? Who would he even ask? “Why would anyone want to run right now?” he thinks. You have a reason to do it- your health is on the line. Them? I have no idea if they’re motivated, what drives them, or whether it aligns with your aspirations. In the meantime, he steps outside – and suddenly remembers he has a piano lesson to teach in an hour. “What does that have to do with anything right now?” he mutters, wondering why he still  teaches… If he had once done it, thinking it would earn him a living, now he knows better – he won’t. But music still plays a role in his life. The piano is still part of his healing. But for now, although the lesson comes at a bad time, he knows it does someone else good – which means a lot.

Outside, it’s twilight. The fields of the western Negev are in full bloom. “Maybe he’ll finally manage to bike to Tekuma,” he thinks, hoping the ground has dried after the rain… The thought hasn’t even passed when his phone rings. Boaz is calling. Boaz – a Jerusalemite, a city man. “What do bikes have to do with anything right now?” he asks, urging him to go back to making music. Later, Boaz will push him again and again to record a solo album. However, he knows that won’t happen anytime soon. His connection to the ground and Negev fields matters more right now. There’s something deeply healing in it.

The ride to Tekuma, a moshav in the neighboring Sdot Negev regional council, tempts him far more than recording an album or teaching piano. A few months ago, he made a real medical discovery there. One of the locals grows Aloe Vera, and according to him, it cured his daughter’s Crohn’s disease. His teacher explained that the plant has been scientifically proven to aid in healing intestinal inflammation. How on earth is he supposed to explain that to his friends in the center? A plant hardly anyone’s heard of, curing all the ailments he’s suffered from for years? “He’s delusional,” they must think. But in Tekuma, he found there were other outsiders like him. He finds a kind of home there. People who healed themselves or their children from difficult, supposedly “chronic” illnesses. Health freaks, too. He has to go.

6:30 p.m.

When the lesson ends, darkness has fallen outside, and he sets out to run along the kibbutz borders. At the start of the loop, he’s reminded of a repressed element of his life – Mefalsim is a war zone. There’s a bomb shelter every ten meters. But there’s a reason people say “95% paradise.” It’s an idyllic space, especially in winter, when the fields turn green and the anemones bloom. This feels more like home than his parents’ house ever did.

After a few hundred meters, he moves away from the bomb shelters and reaches the orchard. A car speeds by, and his eyes glance westward for a moment. “Gaza is right there, across the road,” he remembers. “What does Gaza have to do with anything right now?” he wonders. But the fear doesn’t pass through him. It simply doesn’t matter. Since arriving, he’s only heard one Red Alert siren. That’s not the routine here – or at least not the one he knows. He’s running through a bright green landscape, seeing orchards, breathing relatively clean air – what is there to complain about? And who even cares about Gaza? Occasionally, it’s on the news. Sure, he knows Hamas is there, rockets sometimes, even tunnels… but what difference does that make now? He has a strict nutritional plan from his naturopath to follow. The plan, he must admit, is Sisyphean to the point of despair. But right now, the diet feels just right.

Toward the end of the run, he thinks again about the class earlier: “What did I miss?”

Photos: Personal album. The Western Negev and a building in Kibbutz Mefalsim ©

In Sderot, a city that has endured countless rocket barrages over the past two decades, the extraordinary story of Danit Cohen, a city native, stands out. Danit, who lived with fear in an impossible reality for years, chose to channel it into tireless action and boundless volunteerism.
“In the past, when the sirens went off, I was the first to evacuate,” says Danit. But on October 8, she made a completely different decision. Moments after landing back in Israel from vacation, she was already on her way to Sderot, where her daughters were staying with their grandmother during the terrorist attack.

From Sderot to the Center – and Back Again
Danit was born and raised in Sderot but moved to central Israel in her youth. Later in life, she married and had three children – her eldest son is about to enlist in the IDF, and her twin daughters are nine. After divorcing and facing economic hardship, she returned to Sderot, opened a hair salon, and rebuilt her life in the city where she was born.

On the morning of October 7, as she waited at the airport in Turkey on her way back to Israel from vacation, Danit’s phone suddenly lit up with a rapid stream of “Red Alert” notifications – real-time warnings of incoming rocket fire in Israel. “At first, I thought it was a malfunction,” she recalls, “Even as a Sderot native, I had never experienced such a relentless stream of alerts. But very quickly, I realized this was something completely different. I was there in the airport, unable to get real answers about what was happening in Israel, unable to cry in front of everyone. It was insane. And my kids, they were in Sderot with my mom.”

“I Drafted Myself Under Emergency Order 8”
Despite the city being in danger, she didn’t think twice the day after she landed – she headed straight to Sderot. “When I arrived, I saw the devastation – the destruction the terrorists had left behind. And I saw something I hadn’t seen before – tons of soldiers everywhere. At that moment, I decided to call myself up under ‘Order 8’.” She initially focused on helping soldiers but soon realized that the remaining residents needed help, too. She transformed her backyard salon into an impromptu relief center – offering free haircuts, laundry, hot meals – whatever people needed. “We received a lot of donated food, and gradually, I noticed that my neighbors who hadn’t evacuated were left without assistance. So, we started helping them, too. After October 7, people didn’t know how to manage in Sderot, so we stepped in.”

Danit used her money to purchase refrigerators, place them in her yard, connect them to her apartment’s electricity, and create a WhatsApp group for city residents. The refrigerators were filled with donated food from bakeries, caterers, and individual donors. “I started for the soldiers but quickly realized this is something much bigger – a calling.”

The Children Who Stayed — Between Courage and Fear
On the morning of October 7, as the deadly attack unfolded, Danit’s mother, who was caring for her granddaughters at the time, remained remarkably composed. “She didn’t panic. She didn’t tell them terrorists were outside, and she said it was the IDF. She wanted to protect them – so they wouldn’t be afraid.” In the early days, the girls didn’t know the whole truth. “They were in the safe room (Mamad, a reinforced security room built into Israeli homes for protection during rocket attacks), and she tried to maintain a sense of routine. They saw her sitting at the computer, checking what was happening – but not showing panic. She managed to give them a sense of safety.”

As the days went on and the situation intensified, that initial shield of calm could no longer hold. “Over time, it became impossible to shield the children from the reality of the terrorist attacks. The girls didn’t just witness what was happening; they became part of the response. They helped organize food boxes and assisted neighbors who stayed in the city. Every day, they visited Igor, a 103-year-old neighbor and Holocaust survivor – and brought him food. He gave them chocolates in return, and that moved them. They learned a life lesson – ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.'”

And yet, even acts of kindness and resilience couldn’t erase the fear. “Their room was the safe room – the place they had always felt secure – but now they refuse to go in. After several sleepless nights, we switched rooms. I gave them my room and moved into the safe room.” The echoes of that day still follow them long after the sirens have stopped. “Every sound jolts them – a door slam, a siren even far away, even a passing motorcycle. They cling to me, asking if it’s starting again. That’s the hardest part – watching them live like this.”

Danit never imagined she would see Sderot like this – battered, scarred, almost unrecognizable. The images of October 7 and its aftermath are seared into her memory. “In the past, when there were sirens, I was the first to flee,” she admits. “But this time was different. I saw how they shattered the city – tearing down landmarks like the police station and the giant stone that once stood in the town square – a symbol of Sderot. I saw people killed, burned cars, cars smashed utility poles, and so many soldiers. I was angry. Deeply angry. I told myself, they won’t break me.”

Leaving the city is still an option, though not easy.” I live near the exit from the city — but it’s also the route the terrorists used to enter. I don’t want my daughters to live in fear, but I don’t want to give up our home.” As for the possibility of renewed war in Gaza, Danit is frank: “I’m afraid every day. If war breaks out again, I will have food in the safe room for a few days, but honestly, If I can, I’ll just take my daughters and my mother and run. I want my daughters to grow up with their mother.”

Recently, a tumor was discovered in Danit’s body. And like every challenge she has faced, she confronts it fiercely. It’s hard to ignore the possibility that recent events’ stress and emotional upheaval may have contributed to its development. Despite needing to slow down, she continues her community work in Sderot, yearning for peace. “I always ask God for serenity. I’m a mother first – everything else comes second. Even when the past reminds me of the darkest moments – the fear that once made me run, the painful memories of loss and destruction – I continue to give, act, and receive. I know that volunteering is the way to restore hope, to rebuild the community, and to bring people together – even when the future holds fear and uncertainty.”

Dad, November 10th, 2023

 It’s been more than a month that I’ve been searching for you.
For more than a month, it hurts to breathe.
For more than a month, you are not here to hug me or be my dad.
The moment when everything was lost, when your eyes could no longer see, was the moment when all doubt became a certainty. It has been more than a month, but it doesn’t feel like that. On one hand, it feels like only a few frantic, sleepless days, and yet it feels like decades since you’ve been with us.
My dear dad, I cannot write about you in the past tense.
I have no way to understand that you’re not here.
The time ahead will fill us with your presence and honorable legacy, including a smile, a loving pat on the shoulder, and taking care of your pigeons.
I wish for us to have that compass you had that guided your way.
It’s been over a month since you are gone, my dear dad, and yet, you are right here all the time.
I love you infinitely.

Elya

Dad, Januray 17th, 2024

103 days have passed since you disappeared. With you, so many others vanished, too.
I keep thinking that if you hadn’t disappeared, if you were here, you’d surely be going to the rally every Saturday, shouting, “Bring them home Now!” full of hope and belief that they must come home.
But Dad, we have no strength left!
We are only longing for a moment of hope for Emily, Doron, Gali, Ziv, Keith, and all the hostages to come home from the filthy hands of Hamas.
103 days of longing for hope after all the devastation we’ve experienced as a family, community, and region.
It troubles me to think that there’s not a single field in this land that is yours. It troubles me to believe that your voice is fading and that we continue to live. At the same time, October 7 still echoes in all of us, erasing each day since.
It troubles me to think you’re not coming back because you were murdered, and it troubles me even more to think they aren’t coming back even though they are still alive!
It troubles me that I’m not doing enough; it troubles me to get back to normal or even understand what every day is like.
One hundred and three days!
Where are they?
We have to bring them all home now! Yesterday!

Photo: Private Collection
Artwork: Shoshka, Ze’ev Engelmayer©