“The Land, the Land, the Land”: The Lost Farms of Kibbutz Nir Oz

I was in Kibbutz Nir Oz the day it was announced that the bodies of Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir Bibas would be returned to Israel. More than 1 in 4 members of the community, including the Bibas family, were either killed or taken hostage on October 7. Both Hamas terrorists and Gazan civilians participated in the massacre. They also stole everything they could get their hands on, including tractors; they burned chicken coops, destroyed fields and irrigation systems.

We all know the Oct. 7 of death and destruction. But it was the stories of destruction from the farmers that I hadn’t heard before. The kibbutzim are the breadbasket of Israel, and the terror attacks left them utterly devastated, equipment broken or missing, crops rotting in the fields; their workers were either dead or kidnapped, too scared to return, or Gazans barred from entering the country.

The land, the land, the land. That was the story I heard last week from residents. It reminded me of the Israel I knew from Hebrew school, the Israel in which we made the desert bloom — not by miracles, but with hard work.

“Look at the green of our fields,” one resident said with pride, noting how the burned fields were returning to life. “Look at their fields,” he said, pointing to the dry, brown lands of Gaza. “They could have had fields like ours. We tried to help them.”

Gadi Moses, 80, one of the recently released hostages, is an agricultural expert. The resident shared that at one point during Gadis’ captivity, he was able to see a window. He looked out onto the fields of Gaza and gave his captors advice on how to nurture their fields.

We also spoke with Moran Freibach, who is in charge of equipment maintenance. He joked that now that the equipment is new, his job is easy. We laughed at his joke. We also knew he was in charge of security for the kibbutz.

Today, like on October 7th, he is fighting to save his community. He is there, along with a very small group, who is working to rebuild. The hope is that this summer, some of those in their fifties, the empty nesters, will return. It is too early for those with children — they cannot return until schools are built. It is too early for the elderly — they cannot return until the community has resources. We know that the longer it takes to rebuild safe homes and build schools, the more likely the young families will have resettled in other areas. But still, they work, in hopes that the community will return.

Michal Uziyahi, the mayor of the Eshkol region (which includes Kibbutz Nir Oz), shared her own version of the famous Tali Versano Eisman poem “When I Drown” — “When I am drowning, do not describe to me the water. I know the water. I can feel it in my throat. Instead, describe to me the land.”

The land. The land. The land.

We went to the dining hall. There was a set table, surrounded by yellow chairs. One for each kibbutz member being held hostage. Two yellow highchairs were also set at the table. One for Ariel. One for Kfir.

A dog walked around the grounds and followed us inside. Around her neck was a yellow ribbon. Did she once eat the food that fell from Kfir’s high chair? Did Ariel giggle when she licked his face?

The story rhymed up in Israel’s North. Communities that were evacuated after Hezbollah rockets were currently fighting to rebuild. Even with the destroyed buildings and the cold of Israel’s winter, we could see some blossoms on the bushes. It must have been lovely in Kibbutz Manara.

The land. The land. The land.

During the geopolitical briefing on the situation of the North, the speaker shared that those who are the most afraid are the women.

I introduced myself to her afterward, and I asked if she could share more. She told me that they worry about experiencing a similar attack to what happened in the Gaza envelope on October 7. Ever since that day, she sleeps with her shoes and socks on. She has instructed her 11-year-old daughter to keep shoes by her bed. She fears being taken barefoot. My thoughts went to our brave women — Danielle, Liri, Agam, Naama, Karina — taken captive in their bloodied pajamas. Barefoot. As a mother, as a woman, I understood.

On Thursday, while pushing my suitcase through the Ben Gurion airport scanner, my eyes fell upon a family in the line next to me.

A mother with four young children. The baby had red hair.

As I looked at this beautiful family, I knew that somewhere not far from the airport, tiny coffins were being brought back to their home. To be buried in Nir Oz. To the land that they should have remained, should have grown to till and nurture. The land where they should have married under the stars, and drank the wine made from grapes grown nearby. Where they should have raised families and grown to be old men.

When I am drowning, do not describe to me the water. I can feel the water in my throat.

Instead, I beg of you, describe to me the land.

Meredith Jacobs is CEO of Jewish Women International and the co-founder of I Believe Israeli Women.