October 7: A Volunteer’s Story of Survival and Humanity in Nahal Oz

The Dawn That Shattered Silence

On October 7, the quiet morning air over Nahal Oz carried an unnatural stillness. Nestled close to the Gaza border, this kibbutz had always lived with a delicate balance—life in the shadow of conflict, yet deeply rooted in community. That balance crumbled in a flash of violence. A Hamas attack pierced the fragile border, unleashing terror, chaos, and heartbreak. Amid this turmoil, one volunteer, Yael, found herself at the center of an unimaginable ordeal—an experience that would test the limits of her fear, her resolve, and her belief in the human spirit.

A Day Meant for Ordinary Life

Yael had arrived in Nahal Oz just days earlier, part of a small group helping with local agriculture and offering support in early childhood education. On that morning, she was making coffee in the communal kitchen, her thoughts still lingering on a conversation from the night before. Nothing had prepared her for the sirens, the gunfire, the screams. The first moments were confusion—then the dread set in. She and a few others huddled in a secure room, trembling as the sounds of conflict grew louder outside the reinforced walls.

Facing the Unthinkable

As hours passed, cell service faltered. News trickled in through garbled messages—multiple breaches across the border, hostages taken, homes torched. The attack was unprecedented in scale and cruelty. For Yael, every minute stretched endlessly. She thought of her family in Jerusalem, of the children she had sung to the previous afternoon, and of the volunteer next door who hadn’t made it to shelter. When the gunfire ceased, the silence that followed was even more terrifying. She emerged slowly, cautiously, into a changed world.

Walking Through Ash and Echoes

The kibbutz was unrecognizable. Smoke still hung low over the homes. Broken glass crunched underfoot. The once-bustling communal garden was silent, save for the distant whir of helicopters. Yael joined the few remaining emergency responders in helping survivors—offering water, bandaging wounds, calling out names. The acts were small, but they meant everything. In those desperate hours, the line between volunteer and villager disappeared. They were simply people, together in grief and determination.

Choosing to Stay

In the days that followed October 7, Yael was given the option to leave. Many international volunteers chose to return home, their families urging them to escape the danger. But Yael stayed. Her reasoning was simple: “If I go now, after what we’ve been through, it means fear has won.” She helped rebuild the nursery, painted murals over the bullet holes, and sat with traumatized residents in long, wordless silences. Her presence was not just practical—it was a symbol of resilience.

The Weight and Light of Memory

Yael often walks the perimeter of Nahal Oz at sunrise, where the land stretches open toward Gaza. The view is haunting and beautiful all at once. The trauma of October 7 is a wound that may never fully heal, but it also carved a deeper understanding of solidarity and courage. Yael speaks rarely of the attack itself. Instead, she shares stories of laughter in the recovery tents, of old men who refused to abandon their homes, of teenagers planting flowers as a quiet act of defiance.

A Borderline Between Fear and Hope

Life in Nahal Oz now holds a different rhythm. Security is tighter. The scars are visible. But the spirit of the kibbutz endures, stitched together by those who refused to be broken. On October 7, terror aimed to erase a community. What emerged instead was a fragile, determined kind of hope—embodied in people like Yael, who stepped forward when everything else fell apart.

Reflections from the Edge

The story of October 7 is many things: a tragedy, a political flashpoint, a military event. But through Yael’s eyes, it becomes something more intimate and universal—a testament to what it means to care, to endure, and to believe in a future even in the wake of devastation. At David Gev, we honor such stories—not for the pain they carry, but for the strength they reveal.