lemons on a war-torn hill
Yellowing lemons hang on trees in Kibbutz Be’eri, just two kilometers from the Gaza Strip. Nature keeps moving forward even as the surrounding landscape bears the scars of recent fighting. In this place once calm and idyllic, residents and caretakers face a harsh question: who will harvest the fruit as color and flavor change with the heat? Between fallen houses and open spaces, the only figures nearby are Israeli Army soldiers and a group of civil defense volunteers. One resident, Liran ben David, speaks of denial turning to acceptance: the smell of death has faded, replaced by a stubborn resolve. He is far from home, sheltering in a Dead Sea hotel, yet he remains connected to the kibbutz where his life began.
Under the blazing sun, he moves through streets that hold both fond memories and violent memories. A veterinarian accompanies him to care for the kibbutz cats and dogs, though the rifle rests in his hands. He notes that his wife and children are safe, but their dog is missing. Local reporters recall that Be’eri, founded in 1946 in the Negev’s north, endured one of the fiercest attacks during the Hamas offensive on 7 October. It was described as a nightmare, with at least 112 people killed that morning and Be’eri losing about 10% of its 1,000 residents.
houses are talking
Rami Gold, now 70, has spent his whole life in this left-leaning farming community. He recalls growing up here, and now watches his children and grandchildren carry on the family legacy. He says the first memory of conflict came during the Yom Kippur War; fifty years later, he repeats a similar rhythm of resilience. A unit known as kitat konenut coordinates rapid, localized counterterrorism efforts, with small teams that work to prevent attacks from reaching civilians. “The scale is different this time,” he observes, reflecting on how civilian life is protected under unique pressures.
The idea of survival, as Gold puts it, is practical and personal: a half-hour to an hour can determine whether the army regains control or a field remains a danger. Residents still describe experiences of resilience, sometimes repeating the same stories with a measured pride. The kibbutz houses tell a story that spoken memories alone cannot fully capture. Glass and ceramic shards mark the moment of disruption, while some homes bear the marks of arson or grenade fire. Arabic script on façades hints at the region’s complex history.
“We focused on living”
Gold explains that Hamas is a terrorist organization that calls for actions against Israeli Jews and the state of Israel. He sees a kibbutz as a collective that shares work in agriculture, where neighbors support one another. Another resident, a young businesswoman who serves in the reserve, emphasizes a stubborn focus on daily life and perseverance. The community’s routine previously included cooperative efforts to help neighbors, including elderly residents who were moved to hospitals in Jerusalem for care.
Across the fence, the response from military and civilian volunteers has been visible. Vehicles move quickly as soldiers secure the area, while volunteers and forensics crews begin the careful work of identifying victims and collecting evidence. Yossi Landau, a regional Zaka commander, describes the intensity of the moment and the emotional weight of decisions, including the delicate task of handling a pregnant woman and her unborn child in the aftermath. Beneath a sunlit sky, the sounds of distant explosions and the rumble of armoured vehicles accompany the scene as teams search through the ruins.
This quiet is temporary, as some residents insist they will return. Ben David speaks of lemons ripening on the grass and of the kibbutz’s dream to keep planting and rebuilding, even after such losses. The story of Be’eri remains unfinished, written in the soil and the perseverance of its families.