After more than three years, this week I find myself back in Israel. It’s the longest I’ve been away from Israel since the 1990s, so to say I was eager to get back would be an understatement. I’m on a mission with Dror Israel that is focusing on education, resilience, and renewal in the Jewish state since October 7, with an eye toward building a better future for Israel through education and social change.

In the spirit of trying to break up a much longer piece, I’ll do this report in two parts. So, without further ado…

Day 1: Chicago is not on the way to Israel

Except when it is.

A perfect storm of soccer games, a wedding, Shabbat, and some countries on the don’t-fly-to list resulted in an unusual journey from Boston to Tel Aviv. In my case, a Saturday afternoon jaunt to O’Hare followed by a long-ish layover before United’s first flight from Chicago since, well…it’s been a while.

Sans kids and obligations, but laden with a nagging cold and headache, it wasn’t ideal, but it could have been worse. I tried to sleep, mostly unsuccessfully, watched “Mission Impossible: The Final Reckoning” (worth seeing), and marveled that the girl next to me did not eat, get up, watch a single movie, or move at all for 11 hours. That’s hardcore.

There was also some cool stuff happening on the 787 Dreamliner. Usually, on these overnight flights to Israel, the sun comes up somewhere around the English Channel, guys start wrapping tefillin and praying, and the day begins again after just a few hours of the flight. On this fancy flying machine, though, the windows turned a lovely shade of purple and teal, and you didn’t know the sun was up until the end of the flight when they turned off the magic thing and the sunlight poured in. That was wild, and the best part was that the colors matched the colors of the windows on the Huntrix plane in “KPop Demon Hunters.” Amazing.

Day 2: What is that steak knife for?

The descent into Ben Gurion was directly into the setting sun, and then we were on the ground.

Walking off the plane gave me the chills. Walking down the ramp past the posters of the still-held hostages did it all over again. Then I hit the cigarette smoke at the taxi stand and the magic kind of went away. Then I downloaded the “Homeland Command” app to get real-time updates on rockets and the like, and then got stuck in traffic, and everything felt just about as it should have.

Less than an hour later I was in Tel Aviv, with the group, and jumped right into our opening program with Israeli journalist Asaf Liberman, who painted the most optimistic picture possible of an Israeli society overcoming the challenges of Israeli politics. I hope he is right.

Dinner was an over-the-top festival of constantly bringing out more plates and courses, which at some point became hilarious when the servers started putting out new forks and steak knives. “What is that steak knife for?” was asked a few times, and eventually I just had to get out of there. A dizzying combination of still-sick-a-little, headache, exhaustion, and red wine had set in, so I cut out at 10:15 pm and passed out after a call back to the States to check in, home again in Israel.

Day 3: Tales of survival

There are hotel breakfasts, and there are HOTEL BREAKFASTS. This was the latter.

Then it got real. Tel Aviv became Ashdod, Ashdod turned into Ashkelon, Ashkelon became Yad Mordechai, and then we realized that the road we were on was one of the many that was a war zone on October 7.

It’s hard to describe the day effectively, let alone briefly. Here goes.

At Kibbutz Be’eri, we met Nevo, whose neighborhood was among the first breached by Hamas on the morning of October 7. The matter-of-fact way in which he retold the story of his home under attack was…eerie? Admirable? Impressive? At Be’eri, where over 100 people were killed and over 30 taken hostage, we saw the devastation and destroyed homes, walked through the wreckage of books, pictures, art projects, and lives cut short, all on a beautiful and peaceful morning. It was dissonant, to say the least.

Nevo also told us about sprinting across the courtyard with his children to safety, about his neighbor and a soldier who set up an impromptu sniper’s nest and helped keep the terrorists from overrunning the neighborhood, all of this as we beheld the bullet holes that pockmarked the houses and the tranquility of the lemon tree outside of his home. We also visited kindergartens that had been turned into Hamas command posts but still had daily schedules and happy poems up on the walls. We then heard about the relocation of the community to the Dead Sea hotels, and later to Kibbutz Hatzerim, and then about the vision for the future of Be’eri. And you can be assured that there is one.

At the Nova Festival site, we heard from Roie, who fled in a car and on foot from the terrorists, survived being shot at, and rescued a girl along the way; that’s where the good news ends. Three of his friends were killed, including Sean Davitashvili, whom he texted while hiding at the festival right up to the moment he was killed. Those WhatsApp messages are on Sean’s memorial.

Beyond Roie’s testimonial, the site itself is overwhelming. The 387 dead and 44 abducted are the largest terrorist attack per capita in the history of the world, and after reading the text of all of the memorial signs, it’s hard to feel anything but emptiness. There’s not much else to say.

A kibbutz lunch at Alumim gave us a brief respite from the heaviness of the day, with lots of coffee, a side of schnitzel, and some Israeli cafeteria comfort food that absolutely nails it every time. I’m sure you can picture and taste the rice, potatoes, salad, and vibes in general.

And then we went to Sderot. Twenty-five years ago RIGHT NOW I was living in Ashkelon; I was in Sderot every day taking Ulpan, and I was teaching in Ofakim in the afternoon. All of the roads in and around these places were battlegrounds on October 7, as well as just about every neighborhood in Sderot itself. Our visit to the Sderot Police Station memorial was highlighted by our encounter with Itzik, an older guy who on that fateful day ran outside to shoot terrorists, save his neighbors, and help position snipers and the Yamam when they showed up. If you don’t know the story of that day in Sderot, read up here.

As if that wasn’t enough, we then launched into a meeting with Berta, a Ukrainian-born single mother whose husband was killed in a missile attack in Luhansk over a decade ago, whose tale of survival of her life in general and of being chased in her car by Hamas before the army showed up to save her was astonishing.

Nevo. Roie. Itzik. Berta. Four citizens, who on October 7 came face-to-face with evil incarnate, and lived to tell the tale. There is no frame of reference for me on this one, just awe and respect. What a privilege it was to meet them. We’d all like to think that in the moment of truth, we would become heroes. These four people did, as did countless others.

The day, however, was not just about the darkness and the heroism of October 7. We also learned about urban educator kibbutzim, grassroots organizing, the strengthening of border communities, and heard from people for whom defending the State of Israel means davka living in Sderot (which has gained 4,000 residents since 2023) and other towns and kibbutzim in the area. Am Yisrael Chai, and then some.

Emotionally exhausted but still holding on to a lot of feelings, I pounded out a 4-mile run up and down the beach on a hot and humid night, an old dude huffing and puffing past all of the beautiful people. It did feel good, though, and perhaps helped with some healing.

Day 4: “It’s impossible not to feel small as an American Jew”

I did not say that, but those words, which Barry Shrage spoke at Hostage Square, summarized everything perfectly.

We did not arrive at that moment until 12:30 or so, after a morning of visiting the Oranim elementary school in Rishon Letzion, which was cute and engaging in the way that these Israeli school visits can be. We got a glimpse of some real child-centered, project-based learning in real time, got kicked out of a first grade classroom by some very assertive and vocal 6-year-olds who did not like guests in their room when they returned from their specialist, and got a look at a remarkable workshop/maker’s space before we headed back up to Tel Aviv.

There’s no effective way to describe how it felt to be in Hostage Square that day. When I signed up for the trip, the return of live hostages felt like a pipe dream…but then they came home. When we were there, there were, I think, eight bodies left in Gaza—an unspeakable tragedy in and of itself—but the emotions were battling each other.

The Square has already changed; they were disassembling pieces of it while we were there. There was merchandise for sale that I was wondering if I should buy—if just about everyone was home, should I still buy the hoodie? These are vulgar questions to ask oneself. I feel bad even voicing them.

And it’s great that we “missed” the Square when it was at its worst. In fact, thank God we were not there when there were more captives in Gaza…but we did miss something. At the same time, the conversation has already turned to what will happen to the Square when the last body comes home. They/we, are, in fact, planning for post-trauma while we are still finishing up the trauma. It’s shaky ground.

I tried to say as much in our group processing, but came up woefully short. Luckily, Barry was there to bring it all home, as only he can. The sum total of all of the October 7 aspects of this visit necessarily makes you feel like all of the nonsense we deal with as Jews in America is, in fact, still infinitesimal compared to the weight of what it means to be an Israeli Jew. It’s impossible not to feel small.

Yikes.

An afternoon and evening filled with meeting educators in diverse settings committed to an Israeli future rooted in social democratic values took place, and an inspiring vision and theory of change was laid out for us to grapple with. Should we bet on a combination of educators, youth movement leaders, graduate schools of education, urban kibbutzim, Abraham Accords-adjacent meetings and programs, and school principals to create grassroots societal change in Israel? I mean, why not? That’s, in fact, why I am here this week.

Another 14-hour day ended with a nighttime run down to Yafo and back, hitting up the boardwalk, the alleyways, and the Wishing Bridge. It’s a full life.

That’s all for right now. We’ve got three days left, and I’ll get those thoughts down as soon as I can.

Read Part 2 here.

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