October 7 Nahal Oz

October 7 Nahal Oz: One Volunteer Powerful Story

Between L.A. and the War

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” – Marcel Proust

Stepping off the plane in Los Angeles, the morning sun kissed the tarmac. My beloved, Danna, was waiting to drive us to the ocean. From Lifeguard Station 56, I stood marveling at the serenity—gazing, as if for the first time, at the meeting line between the deep blue sea and the pale bluish sky. The echoes of October 7 at Nahal Oz still rang in my bones.

As we walked, friendly greetings of “hello, good morning” floated around us. I took many deep breaths, thinking, I’m back—and it’s so different. It felt like a space between spaces, where the dust of Israel still clung to my skin, and the war’s shadow moved quietly within me.

How does one surrender to the black hole of not knowing what comes next? How do I touch the edge of sadness—sharp as shrapnel, yet soft as hummus on the tongue—without being cut?

The experience at Kibbutz Nahal Oz—the rumble of tanks, the quiet resilience of those left behind—left me with a sense of a consciousness shift. A space dense with wisdom, waiting for me to feel its pulse. And yet, for days, all that revealed itself was the sadness. Nothing else felt clear.

I wanted to visit the Getty Center—to lose myself in art. Art has always been a sanctuary; a way to quiet the noise. I hoped that I might find a glimpse of what I was searching for within the luminous world of William Blake’s current exhibition. Not answers, maybe. But resonance. A flicker of clarity within the liminal space I now walk.

The Day It All Changed: October 7

On the morning of Saturday, October 7, a WhatsApp notification pierced my waking haze, pulling me into a world a continent away. It was Avital, my cousin from Kibbutz Sufa, just miles from the Gaza border. Her messages came fast, urgent: “Safe room,” “terrorists,” “Amos at the door.” I could feel the panic—she and her husband Amos huddled in the safe room with their grandchildren, fear thick in the air. House to house. Hamas. No one knew what was next.

Later, the full horror came into view. Avital’s son, Yuval, stationed just outside, was close to his own young family. He and three others fought back from rooftops and alley corners, holding off the attackers with what little they had—buying precious time. Hours passed inside that concrete safe room. Hours of waiting, trembling, listening. Eventually, the army came. Then came the evacuation, a new dawn, the buses to Eilat. Three months later, they’re still there—displaced, uncertain.

That same morning, I stepped into a 5Rhythms dance workshop led by Lucia Horan. The contrast was jarring. The headlines couldn’t contain the devastation. My chest was a knot—rage, grief, disbelief. “Never again,” we’d said. That was our generation’s vow, born from our parents’ Holocaust scars. But here we were, again.

I tried to dance. Each movement felt like a betrayal. How could I turn, leap, or sway when my people were bleeding, dying, screaming? My body was on the dance floor, but my heart was with Avital, with Israel, with every shattered soul trying to survive. That day, dance became something else: a cry, a prayer, a vow—a movement not of joy but of remembrance.

On Sunday—the workshop’s final day—Lucia stood at the center of the Masonic Lodge on Venice Blvd and spoke about resilience. She called healing a wild dance, not a straight line. We stumble, we rise. We transform from victim to survivor to healer. Eventually, if we’re lucky, we find peace in giving.

She reminded us that our strength is born in the crucible of hardship. Our scars, our truths, our capacity to adapt—they are the true measure of resilience. Vulnerability isn’t a weakness; it’s a superpower. The ability to move with the present, not fight it, is how we begin to shape a different future.

There we were—a hundred of us—men and women on a path of healing, searching for joy and meaning, just like the 3,500 people gathered at the Nova Festival in Israel that same weekend. They came to dance. To celebrate life. To imagine a better world. And then came the unthinkable. Brutality. Rape. Death. Humiliation. A massacre that left permanent scars.

Could it happen here? In this hall, in our circle? Could someone walk in with a shotgun, filled with hate, and open fire? The thought clung to me like dust. Madness, I whispered. Madness.

Between Museums and Missiles 

On Tuesday morning, we flew to Washington, D.C. While Danna immersed herself in an architectural conference, I wandered the museums. The National Gallery held me the longest.

There’s nothing quite like encountering a work of art in person that you’ve only seen in books. Van Gogh’s self-portrait (1889)—his dark blue jacket, the nervous brushwork—spoke louder in oil than ever on a printed page. Thomas Cole’s The White Mountains (1839) and Jasper Cropsey’s Autumn on the Hudson (1860) brought the American landscape to life with a kind of quiet majesty, their light and color whispering stories of another time.

Then came Jacques-Louis David’s monumental Napoleon in His Study at the Tuileries (1812)—every inch pulsing with ambition and solitude. The power of that painting didn’t just lie in its composition; it was in the story it told with every stroke.

Outside the museum, the architecture—the columns, the symmetry, the hush—framed these experiences like a cathedral to reflection.

And then I stood before the bas-relief sculpture of Colonel Shaw and the 54th Massachusetts Infantry. These Black soldiers, cast in motion and defiance, stirred something deep in me. It wasn’t just history. It was memory made visible—dignity carved in bronze.

That night, at the Lincoln Memorial, the shadows extended across the mall. Lincoln’s figure sat silent, his gaze steady, carved from endurance. The space itself held weight. Stillness spoke louder than speeches.

But in the middle of all that silence, something inside me grew louder. Sirens filled the streets. First responders passed in steady flow. I checked my phone—Israel. My WhatsApp groups buzzed like alarm bells. My friend Momo posted: “Volunteers needed on dairy farms in the South. Abandoned kibbutzim. Urgent.”

At the Holocaust Museum, I stepped into the replica cattle car. The air inside was heavy—stale with memory. I’d seen it before. In dreams. In silence. In my father’s tattoo. This wasn’t history; it was inheritance. And as I stood inside that boxcar, I wasn’t a visitor—I was a witness. And witnesses carry responsibility.

Reuven’s Final Act

That Friday night, Rabbi Naomi Levy told the story of Reuven Heinik. On October 9, two days after Hamas terrorists murdered over 1,200 civilians in Israel, Reuven returned to Kibbutz Kissufim to care for the cows. They hadn’t been fed or milked since the attack. He entered the military zone, went back to the farm, and, while in the milking parlor, was shot and killed by a terrorist who had hidden among the livestock for 48 hours.

His act of devotion—returning to care for the voiceless—left me shaken.

Art, once again, became more than beauty. It became mirror, compass, fire.

On the flight home to Los Angeles, I knew something in me had shifted. The paintings stayed with me, but the stories—Reuven’s, my cousin’s, the echoing cries of a wounded land—demanded something more.

No longer could I just bear witness.

It was time to act.

Answering the Call to Serve

When we returned home to Los Angeles, a restlessness crept in—an unsettled feeling I couldn’t shake. I kept asking myself, What am I doing here? The sense of helplessness gnawed at me. I knew I couldn’t change the broader conflict, but maybe I could do something small. Something real. Like help save the lives of cows left behind, suffering without care.

I called Gal, the woman coordinating volunteer work on the dairy farms.
“Do you have any experience?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, “but I’m a quick learner.”
She paused. “We prefer people with experience. But if you’re flying in from Los Angeles, I’ll take you. Report to Sa’ad Junction, Sunday at 8:30 a.m. The army will escort you into Kibbutz Nirim.”
“Great. Thank you,” I said, relieved to have a purpose before boarding the flight.

When I stepped onto the El Al plane—one of the few still flying into Israel—a stewardess looked at me and said, “You look ready.”
I was wearing high-laced boots and khaki U.S. Army-style pants.
“You have no idea,” I smiled.

A day later, Gal reassigned me to Kibbutz Nahal Oz. Closer to the border. Closer to the danger.
A friend texted, “You just got promoted to special forces. Nahal Oz is half a mile from Gaza. Can’t get closer than that.”
“Okay,” I replied. It didn’t matter where. I was going.

Another friend asked me before I left, “Aren’t you afraid?”
I didn’t have an answer. Maybe I was. But fear wasn’t in the driver’s seat.
I left the worrying to Danna—who, with her steady heart, carried the weight of what I was walking into.

What I felt was adrenaline. Focus. And something even deeper—duty. A sense of clarity that said: this is where I need to be.

Entering Ground Zero: Nahal Oz

We arrived at the junction—Moti, a fellow volunteer, and me, the hitchhiker. A handful of soldiers manned the roadblock. Two young female soldiers, heads buried in their phones, tried coordinating our entry with the command post. It felt chaotic. This is a military zone, I thought. Moti shrugged, “Nothing to do but be patient.”

Eventually, we were cleared, but a large trailer blocked the road. We lost contact with our convoy. As we made our way toward Nahal Oz, we passed bullet-ridden cars with blown-out windows. Cleanup crews scraped away blood and shattered glass—ghosts of what had just been.

The dairy entrance was scorched. Glass doors pocked with bullet holes. Charred walls. A grim welcome. Just days earlier, milking the cows would’ve been impossible—fire had partially destroyed the parlor. But now, it stood lit, humming, functional.

A small group of men greeted us—some armed with pistols, one with a short M-16. They weren’t staff; they were sons of the kibbutz who had returned when the gates reopened. They freed the calves, fed the cows, restored the parlor. No speeches. No introductions. Just quiet urgency.

Roughly 100 Hamas terrorists had stormed Nahal Oz on October 7. They murdered families, house by house. At dawn, they reached the dairy, kidnapping and assaulting Thai workers. A few cows were trapped in milking stalls for days. The IDF didn’t regain full control for five days. In that time, cows meant to be milked three times a day went unattended—many developed infections. A rocket had struck one of the barns, killing twenty cows. When we arrived, some carcasses still lay outside, bloated under the sun.

Our daily tasks were simple, but vital: milk the cows, inspect their udders, repair what we could. Some udders gave milk. Others leaked thick, yellow clots—like cottage cheese. Infection. Blockage. We applied pressure. Sometimes the machines cleared the ducts. Sometimes not.

Picture this: first light, the parlor buzzing. A few old-timers, some first-timers like me. Spray, squeeze, pump, repeat. It was messy, rhythmic, physical—and strangely meditative. My hands were deep in the work when suddenly, the air split open – a siren.

Sirens, Cows, and Grit

The same siren I hadn’t heard since Yom Kippur 1973.

Fifteen seconds to the shelter. We dropped everything and ran.

That’s how it went the first couple of weeks—four, five alerts a day. Then it eased. We learned the drill: phones buzzed with the Red Alert app (though not all phones did), and whoever heard it first yelled, triggering a mad dash to the nearest shelter. Solid concrete. Iron doors. Some shaped like half-eggs. Others like shipping containers.

After thirty seconds inside, we’d emerge, brush ourselves off, and resume milking. Laughter was a pressure valve—it cut through the tension. I was on video calls with Danna during a few alerts. She joined us virtually. The volunteers came to know her well. Her presence was felt and appreciated.

After our first shift, we gathered outside. Cigarettes, coffee, and a shared silence. We looked out over golden-brown fields stretching to the Gaza border. Just half a mile away, houses clustered on a hill. I didn’t know the name then—only later did I learn it was Shuja’iyya, one of Hamas’s largest strongholds.

And then—boom. A sonic crack tore through the quiet. An airstrike. A white burst in the sky, smoke trailing behind. One of the older men looked me dead in the eyes. Red t-shirt. The words: Once a paratrooper, always a paratrooper. That look stayed with me.

In that moment, reality bent. It felt surreal, like something from a fever dream. Yet it was exactly what I had imagined. A world both fractured and luminous. The ordinary overwritten by something deeper—something that cracked you open.

I had entered a realm where the old rules no longer applied. Where the line between action and presence, between grief and service, blurred into something raw and sacred.

This wasn’t about heroism. It was about showing up.
Hands in the mud. Hearts wide open.
And the steady rhythm of survival.

Trauma and Technique in the Milking Parlor

Our responsibilities included milking the cows once a day and repairing the damage inflicted on the dairy farm. Each udder had to be carefully inspected—some produced milk, others leaked a yellow, cottage cheese–like substance, and some were completely blocked. The Nahal Oz dairy farm houses over 600 cows, including 320 milking cows and the rest a mix of calves, heifers, and dry cows. The presence of cottage cheese–like discharge signaled infections and a risk of full blockage, prompting us to apply pressure in hopes that the pump would clear the ducts.

Now picture this: we’re in the milking parlor—a mix of old-timers and first-timers—immersed in the rhythmic, messy, strangely meditative ritual of milking. Spray, squeeze, attach the pump, spray again. A sensory symphony, and for me, a full-on initiation. Hands-on with udders, deep in the muck of it all, I found myself lost in the rhythm—equal parts awe, discomfort, and immersion.

And then—the Red Color Alert. A siren I hadn’t heard since the Yom Kippur War of ’73 tore through the calm.

Fifteen seconds. That’s all we had to reach the nearest safe room before the rockets hit. Everything dropped. We ran.

During the first weeks, this happened four or five times a day. Over time, the alerts came less frequently, but the drill stayed the same: whoever heard the app notification first would shout it out, triggering a mad scramble to shelter. These safe rooms were scattered throughout Nahal Oz—some shaped like half-eggs, others like reinforced boxes—all built of solid concrete and sealed by thick iron doors.

Inside, we waited thirty seconds, catching our breath. Then we’d step back into the light, shake off the adrenaline, and resume milking. Laughter often followed—our release valve, our rebellion against fear. Somehow, it helped us stitch the day back together.

I was on a video call with Danna during a few of the alerts. She virtually joined us in those moments, her presence woven into our daily rhythm. My fellow volunteers came to know her and appreciated her grounding presence. Even from across the ocean, she was with us—in spirit, in solidarity, in love.

A Borderline Reverie: Between Coffee and Fire

Our first milking shift ended, and we gathered outside—coffee in hand, food passed around, cigarettes shared in silence. We stood gazing at the vast, golden-brown fields stretching between us and the border fence. In the distance, a cluster of white-gray houses clung to a hillside like pebbles tossed across the landscape. Half a mile away, yet still nameless to me.

Only after I left Nahal Oz did I learn the name of that neighborhood: Shuja’iyya. A word that lands heavy. A Hamas stronghold. Their largest training camp. The name now echoes in my memory like a low, persistent hum—its history hanging in the air even as we sipped our morning coffee.

And then the calm shattered.

A roar tore through the sky—an aircraft’s thunderous cry, slicing the day wide open. We flinched instinctively, our eyes darting upward. Over the fields, above the nameless homes, a white bloom suddenly erupted in the sky. Smoke curled into black tendrils, riding the wind, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of destruction.

One of the older men turned and looked straight at me—his stare unwavering. He wore a red t-shirt that read, “Once a paratrooper, always a paratrooper.” That gaze—unblinking, calm, and etched with something ancient—stayed with me. I can still see it.

In that instant, the boundary between what I considered real and what felt dreamlike blurred. The world around me shimmered with something surreal—familiar yet ungraspable. I wasn’t surprised; in a way, I had expected this moment. But it still moved through me like a quiet revelation.

It felt like the universe had allowed me to enter a liminal space, where ordinary narratives unraveled and were replaced by something raw, unpredictable, and real. In this realm, dream and reality intertwined—a tapestry woven from adrenaline, wonder, memory, and the tremble of the unknown.

Learning the Ropes on a Dairy Farm

Our first milking shift had just wrapped up when Idan, our team lead, said, “Now let’s go separate the dry cows.”

Dry cows? I had no idea what that meant, but I didn’t want to look clueless. I kept quiet, played it cool, and followed his lead. “Let’s start with 4503,” he said as we entered one of the sheds. Ohad pointed her out, and Idan instructed, “Move her to the far shed at the end of the farm.”

So began the exhausting and strangely amusing task of moving one cow at a time—herding, waving arms, blocking escape routes—without knowing why we were doing it. That evening, I told the story, and we all had a good laugh.

Idan, ever patient and full of knowledge, became my go-to. He explained that dry cows are pregnant females not currently producing milk. “A couple of months before calving,” he said, “we inject antibiotics to dry up their udders. It gives them time to rest and grow the fetus.” He also announced that tomorrow, we’d be doing the injections ourselves. I smiled. Finally, a chance to put my old medic instincts to work.

Heifers, I learned, are young females—between six months and two years old—who haven’t yet calved. Calves are even younger, and bulls? “No bulls here,” Idan said. “We use artificial insemination for everything.”

One of our key tasks was syncing the real-time location of each cow—milkers, dry cows, heifers, and calves—with the data in the Afimilk system. Each animal wears a tag that tracks behavior and production stats. After the chaos of October 7, it was a miracle the system was still running. But restoring accuracy was another story.

Routines, Resilience, and Rhythm

As I spent more time with Idan and later Hans—our two dairy managers—I realized that dairy farming is far more than mucking stalls. It’s science, it’s business, and it’s art. Precision, rhythm, and profit all rolled into one.

Pretty quickly, I stopped flinching at the manure. I didn’t bother dodging it. It got on my hands, even splattered my face. It didn’t matter. Something shifted—not just physically, but mentally. I was in it.

We all found our groove. Ohad cared for the calves. Yaniv brought the cows in and fixed broken pipes between shifts. Andrew, Moti, and I stayed on the parlor floor. And Idan? Everywhere at once.

Then there was Rani—71, wiry, ageless. He bikes 120 kilometers a week. He used to live in Nahal Oz, and though he moved away, his son stayed. On October 7, his son and family locked themselves in the safe room, texting Rani every 20 minutes. “What were you thinking?” I asked. He said, “We didn’t understand how bad it was. We thought the army would come in minutes.”

Rani had arrived two days before the rest of us. He knew the machinery. He taught by example. When I left after three weeks, he was still there—and has returned many times since.

Every day, we walked from Gidi’s house—our temporary home—to the dairy. Along the way, we passed homes torn open, belongings scattered like confetti of grief. Burned-out cars. Bullet holes. Broken windshields. And yet, Nahal Oz was still beautiful. Green paths. Flowering bushes. Quiet gardens. The silence held weight—but the land hadn’t given up.

In the parlor, Moti became my anchor. A Technion-trained electrical engineer with roots in Kfar Vitkin, where he used to milk cows on his grandparents’ farm. Behind his glasses, you could see the gears turning—always calculating, solving, optimizing. He had the build of a swimmer and the mind of an engineer. He got the machines running when no one else could. When he left, I took over.

Wisdom from the Elders

We quickly settled into our roles: Ohad cared for the calves, Yaniv was in charge of bringing the cows to and from their shades and spent his in-between time repairing damaged water pipes. Andrew, Moti, and I held steady on the parlor floor, while Idan—always in motion—seemed to be everywhere at once.

And then there was Rani.

At 71, Rani defied every expectation of age. Fit and agile, he biked 120 kilometers a week. A former resident of Nahal Oz, he had long since moved away, though his son still lived in the kibbutz. On October 7, when the horror unfolded, his son and family huddled in their safe room, hands clutched around the doorknob, texting Rani every 20 minutes.

“What was going through your mind?” I asked him later.
“We didn’t grasp the magnitude of the catastrophe,” he said quietly. “We thought the army would arrive within minutes.”

Rani had arrived at the kibbutz two days before the rest of us. His deep experience showed in everything he did—working machinery, managing unexpected challenges, modeling calm under pressure. Tasks that baffled the rest of us, Rani performed with quiet efficiency. He was still there when I left three weeks later, and I’ve heard he’s returned several times since.

Walking Through Ruin

Each morning, our short walk from Gidi’s house—now temporarily our home—to the dairy farm took us through a landscape marked by contrast. We passed houses with their contents spilled outside, windows shattered, closets upturned—a raw display of the trauma that struck on October 7. Along the way, vehicles stood silent and broken, riddled with bullet holes, windshields caved in, doors twisted out of shape. And yet, amid the wreckage, Nahal Oz still held on to its pastoral beauty. The kibbutz paths remained clean and well-kept, flanked by flowering bushes and carefully tended gardens. The air was quiet, but not with peace—it was a silence wrapped in the heavy hum of distant artillery, where birdsong had once reigned.

In the milking parlor, Moti quickly became my anchor whenever the machinery faltered. A graduate of the Technion and a skilled electrical engineer, Moti carried his childhood experience from milking cows at his grandparents’ farm in Kfar Vitkin like a hidden superpower. With the build of a swimmer and the sharp mind of a problem-solver, he was the first to jump in when something stalled or sparked. You could practically see the calculations running behind his thick glasses, as if he were mentally wiring a circuit board in real time. When Moti eventually left, that quiet mastery—kickstarting the system and troubleshooting glitches—passed to me.

Hubris and the Abyss: Israel’s Wake-up Call

In the evenings, we gathered—seven volunteers sharing meals, stories, and silences. Together, we watched the news. Each night brought more images of horror and heroism, of murder and survival. Israel grieved out loud. The entire country mourned in a single breath.

“None of this was supposed to happen,” we said again and again. There’s an army. There’s a state. There are fences, warnings, barriers, battalions, tanks, helicopters. Our nightmares were supposed to be kept at bay by all of this.

But reality is more dangerous than nightmares—especially when it’s wrapped in words and dressed as certainty.

History reminds us: excessive pride comes before the fall. In English, it’s called hubris—the illusion of invincibility. It breeds overconfidence, denial, reckless certainty. Hubris leads to collapse. Think of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun. Think of October 7.

So what now?

How does a nation—how do we—rise from such a rupture? How do we stand at the edge of the abyss and choose not to fall, but to plant something?

In this phase of mourning, I keep returning to the image of a flower breaking through cracked concrete. Rebirth happens in the most unlikely places. Resilience isn’t just survival. It’s choosing presence over paralysis. It’s saying: we’re still here.

The need to believe took root in me long ago—an inheritance from Holocaust survivors. This land, this fragile and sacred Israel, was carved out for the Jewish people as a place of refuge. It demands more than defense. It asks for our excellence, our presence, and our love. Because this is not just a country—it is our destined sanctuary.

Living Amid Rockets and Reverie

We were seven civilian volunteers in the kibbutz, but we were not alone. The military’s presence was everywhere—visible, audible, constant. The kibbutz had become a military base.

Many soldiers were stationed in and around the kibbutz. Their presence wasn’t just visible but also intensely audible. The sounds of the bombing became commonplace. And when ground operations commenced, the decibel level increased significantly. The ground artillery bombings roared the loudest, making the house we inhabited vibrate with every explosive eruption.

At the dairy farm’s edge, a hill was crowned by an improvised military guard and observation point. A platoon of young reservist soldiers was stationed there, manning advanced wire-guided missiles. These missiles used thin wires to transmit commands mid-flight, allowing for precise control and direction.

These young men reminded me of my platoon brothers—embodied youth, good looks, fitness, motivation, intelligence, and friendliness. We often shared lighthearted banter about the prospect of me joining their ranks.

Occasionally, I would ascend the hill to visit. We’d peer through binoculars together, scanning the nearby houses and water tower across the field. I listened as they pointed out subtle changes they observed—small but important clues. In those quiet moments, amidst the noise of war, we forged real connections.

Calves, Chaos, and Camaraderie

“Two calves on the loose just passed by our house!” came the message from our soldier friends, crackling with mischief.

Yaniv and I couldn’t resist a good search-and-rescue mission. We set off laughing, the kibbutz trails stretching before us like sunlit veins, our footsteps stirring dust and playfulness.

Then—without warning—the afternoon peace shattered. A Red Alert siren wailed, cutting through the air like a blade. Adrenaline surged.

“Shelter? Where?” I gasped, scanning the fields.

“There!” Yaniv pointed to a rectangular concrete structure.

We bolted, laughter turning to ragged breath. Yaniv stumbled, his phone flying from his hand. “Leave it!” I yelled, half-laughing, half-panicked. “We’ll find it later!” We ran harder, legs pumping, urgency blending fear and absurdity into something oddly electric.

When we emerged, above us hung a thin white plume—a vapor trail from the Iron Dome intercepting its target. The moment held us. Awestruck, hearts still pounding, we stood silent under a blue sky reclaimed.

Yaniv: Grief, Plants, and Quiet Wisdom

Two calves had turned into two heart-pounding sirens. The comedy of the chase became a reminder of how swiftly joy and danger can trade places. But even in chaos, trust prevailed—woven through shared laughter, a dash for safety, and the unspoken bond forged under fire.

Yaniv, with his dark beard and thoughtful eyes, carried his emotions openly—sometimes with rage, sometimes with warmth, always with authenticity. His words often unfolded like poems. “A comfort zone,” he once said with a half-smile, “is a gilded cage.” Though the Hebrew rhyme was lost in translation, the sentiment lingered.

He had a dry humor, too: “Most professors are bald, but not every bald man is a professor,” he’d joke, eyes twinkling.

Yaniv was part of the Nova Festival crowd—he simply wasn’t there that day. His grief was deeply personal, etched into his quiet moments. A farmer and plant expert, he could name every flower, recount its medicinal uses, and explain how to prepare it. He spoke of rooftop gardens and permaculture, aquaponics and vertical beds—urban farming not as theory but as a way of life.

Back at the dairy, we found the missing calves outside a shed. They’d found us before we found them. As for getting them back in—we decided that could wait for morning. One adventure was enough for a single day.

Moshe’s Battalion

Moshe, accompanied by a three-car entourage, came to visit. I’ve known Colonel Moshe Havivian since 1978, when we served in the same paratrooper platoon. While most men his age have long retired from reserve duty, Moshe continues to serve over 70 days a year as a battalion commander. His devotion is extraordinary. He leads with charisma, compassion, and humility—qualities you feel in his presence, carried not only in his commanding stature but in the warmth of his broad smile.

Moshe’s battalion plays a vital role in securing the Iron Dome. They escort re-ammunition, technicians, and essential personnel who keep the defense system running. On October 7, when the emergency call went out to his entire battalion, every soldier reported for duty within hours—a response that would normally take days. It was a moment when bureaucracy fell away, and instinct took over. Despite the chaos and the urgent mobilization of 300,000 reserves that day, there weren’t enough supplies to go around. Gaps had to be filled—not by the army, but by volunteers and donors. The people of Israel, aided by generous support from around the world—especially the United States—quickly rose to meet the need.

One of Moshe’s urgent requests was for proper boots. His soldiers were showing up with whatever they had—many ill-equipped for the long haul. That’s when the “Moshe’s Boots” operation began. Danna launched a fundraising campaign with a group of her girlfriends. While sourcing the boots proved more complicated than we expected, we raised over $12,000 to support the battalion with warm clothing and critical supplies.

Moshe visited me twice, and on one of those visits, Amir joined him—another friend from our paratrooper unit. Amir, a seasoned dairy farm manager, brought decades of experience, including deep familiarity with the Afimilk system. He came to assist Hans, our on-site manager. Amir pointed out the “Map” feature in the software—something Hans had overlooked. That small insight changed everything. Hans, originally from the Netherlands, has lived in Israel for 40 years. He’s a man of few words, but when he speaks, it’s with the clarity of someone who sees us—Israelis—from both within and slightly outside. I often thought: he may be Dutch by birth, but he understands us in ways that are deeply Israeli.

Throughout my time at Nahal Oz, I felt safe. Not just because of the soldiers, but because I knew—if something were to happen—I had people I could count on. Friends. Comrades. And above all, my brother Israel. There’s a kind of strength that comes from that. It settles in your chest, quiet and certain. The blessing of walking through life knowing you’re not alone.

Youth, Learning, and Belonging

During my first week, I took stock of my physical, mental, and spiritual well-being and felt grounded enough to ask Gidi for a two-week extension. He graciously agreed. As the week drew to a close, I braced myself for the coming transition—aware of the emotional undertow that often comes with arrivals and departures. The group of men I had grown close to was about to leave, making space for a new crew. The change stirred some unease, especially when I learned the incoming team all came from the same kibbutz, all the same age, childhood friends. I found myself wondering: where would I fit in?

Then they arrived—five young lion cubs: Ofir, Ravid, Shai, Yam, and Yahly. They were led by Hans, a tall, older man with flowing hair and a quiet authority. We shook hands all around, though I couldn’t help but catch the faint disapproval in Ravid’s eyes. Still, I stayed open.

The next day, the new group introduced several changes, clearly shaped by their collective experience. We moved from working barehanded to wearing gloves—ideally with long sleeves. They swapped out our old udder-cleaning rags for specialized disposable cloths, and post-milking disinfection switched to a spray method. I embraced these changes. They made the process faster, more efficient, and clearly more hygienic.

By week’s end, our shift time had been shaved down by 30 minutes, which helped as we moved into the new rhythm of two milkings a day: 5:45 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. The days were still long, but the flow was smoother now—cleaner, sharper, and oddly more cohesive. I was no longer an outsider. Just a man among lion cubs, learning, adjusting, and holding his own.

Pirgun Power

My fears about fitting in with this pack of young lions quickly dissolved. They turned out to be the most welcoming, friendly, and cheerful bunch I’d ever met—full of genuine affection and lighthearted ease. What struck me most was their use of pirgun, an informal Israeli term for enthusiastic praise. But this wasn’t just “good job” level approval—pirgun is praise on steroids. It’s laced with humor, warmth, encouragement, and deep camaraderie—like slipping someone into a superhero suit stitched together with love.

Picture Ofir mid-conversation, suddenly booming, “Give Ravid some respect! Forget the chubby cherub days—he’s all muscle now! Oh, and did I mention he managed a major construction site in Africa?” The words didn’t just entertain—they lifted. The entire group’s banter became an uplifting mantra, a chorus of mutual celebration.

Witnessing this kind of easy generosity—this joyful, unabashed celebration of each other—was like sunshine for the soul. It reminded me how powerful it is to reflect the best in the people we love. I left that day thinking: I need to embody my inner Ofir more often. Because who doesn’t thrive under a shower of “you’re amazing”?

Nahal Oz’s Dairy Farm: An Inspiring Comeback

Ten days in, signs of rebirth began to emerge. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the farm’s spirit lifted—resilient, determined, quietly triumphant. The massive milk tank had been repaired, and the cooling system was back online. Instead of being discarded, the first new batch of milk was collected and sent for quality testing. It passed. Daily pickups resumed—a momentous occasion. Gidi, the dairy’s manager, with his ever-weary look and signature cigarette, came to witness it. His embrace with the truck driver was a snapshot of shared victory, a quiet nod to everything it had taken to get here.

This moment marked more than operational recovery. It was a reclamation of life—proof that even under the shadow of terror, the people of Nahal Oz were determined to rebuild.

Before October 7th, the cows were milked three times a day, producing around 40 liters each. But when I arrived, we were down to one milking a day, and yields had dropped to just 20 liters per cow. By the time I left, we had returned to two milkings daily, and production had climbed to about 25 liters—a slow but steady rise that hinted at healing.

While all Israeli dairy farms operate under production quotas, Nahal Oz had always stood out. Two farms might meet the same volume quota, but higher payments go to those producing milk with greater fat and protein content. In that regard, Nahal Oz excelled. Its reputation as a top-tier operation remained intact—even in crisis.

The secret? Many say it lies in the insemination program. The exact formula remains a mystery, but I suspect it’s a careful blend of genetics, science—and a touch of art.

The Science and Art of Dairy Reproduction

I never truly considered the complexities of how cows produce milk. In my naïveté, I imagined a kind of endless fountain—hook them up, milk comes out, repeat. Oh, how little I knew.

Like humans, cows produce the most milk right after giving birth. From there, production slowly declines. Most Israeli dairy farms use the Israeli-Holstein breed—prized for its high milk yield but with a shorter average lifespan. Given that a Holstein begins ovulating around age two and lives five to six years, a cow might carry four to five pregnancies at most—each one lasting about nine months.

Timing, I learned, is everything.

Knowing exactly when to inseminate is critical. That’s where technology steps in. Tools like Afimilk help track each cow’s reproductive status. Subtle signs—like increased movement, mounting behavior, or slight discharge—signal a cow is in estrus, the brief window when she can conceive. But it’s a narrow window. Inseminate too early or too late, and the opportunity is lost.

Over time, I came to see the process not just as science, but as art. A balance of timing, observation, instinct, and data. Good reproductive management doesn’t just affect one cow—it improves the entire herd over generations through selective breeding and genetics.

➤ Read more: How the Israeli Holstein Became a Global Milk Leader — an insightful look into Israel’s pioneering role in dairy science and cow genetics.

Tapestry of Hope

Signs of hope continued to unfold like a living tapestry. When Rani mentioned the need for a full-size tool cabinet stocked with essential equipment, it felt like a distant dream. But to our amazement, just three hours later, the cabinet arrived—fully equipped, precisely organized, and delivered by a group committed to helping wherever help was needed. This gesture, like spring flowers blooming across a scorched land, was more than logistical support—it was a quiet anthem of solidarity. A testament to the enduring spirit of camaraderie that pulses through Israel, even in its darkest hour.

Calves, Colostrum, and Farewells

Among the volunteers, Yahly stood out—not just because he was the youngest at twenty, but because of his natural ease with the work. From Kibbutz Beit Zera, he had a few months to spare before his military service and chose to spend them here, at Nahal Oz. Energetic and inventive, he even built a makeshift workstation to improve the calf-feeding routine. And then, just as suddenly as he arrived, he was gone, leaving the calves—and their milk rations—in my care.

He left instructions, of course. Precise measurements, scheduled feedings. Did I follow them to the letter? Well, let’s just say the calves grew accustomed to a touch of indulgence during my tenure. I figured, why not let them enjoy a feast before my departure?

Working with calves brought me face to face with the tender edge where life and death meet. Each newborn was a symbol of renewal, of life quietly insisting on itself even as war raged nearby. But not all of them made it. Some didn’t survive their first few days. Their passing didn’t echo with the same thunder as the morning news bulletins announcing fallen soldiers—but each small loss still pierced the heart. I wanted them to live.

One calf, in particular, left a mark. I was with Hans when her mother went into labor. As I reached for my phone to capture the moment, Hans called out sharply, “What are you doing? Come help!” Caught off guard, I asked, “How?” “Help me pull!” he shouted, already gripping the newborn’s emerging limbs. I slid in beside him, hands around her tiny legs. Together, we brought her into the world. The mother began licking her clean almost immediately, her tongue brushing away blood and birth like a blessing. It was one of those rare, transcendent moments—life bursting into being, raw and real, in the middle of a wounded world.

Within an hour, we settled the calf into her straw-filled pen and fed her colostrum—the first milk, rich in antibodies and nutrients. Colostrum is vital in those early hours; it primes the immune system, jumpstarts digestion, and gives the calf a fighting chance. I was eager to feed her, filled with hope. But from the beginning, she drank weakly. I tried again and again in the following days, coaxing, encouraging, willing her to thrive. Still, one evening, Hans gave me the news. She hadn’t made it.

Jersey Boy, Hockey Wisdom, and Quiet House

Andrew returned during the third week, this time joined by Golan and Iddo. Hans chose to stay on, too. I was glad to see Andrew again—we had forged a strong connection during the first week, and his presence brought a sense of continuity.

The house felt different now. The new group leaned more toward introspection, and with that came a quieter rhythm. Conversations over meals gave way to reading in corners, solo walks, and long silences. It wasn’t better or worse—just a new cadence. The boisterous energy had softened into something more contemplative.

Andrew, still a Jersey boy at heart but Israeli by choice, had once traded his Springsteen tapes for IDF fatigues at the age of twenty. After his service, he stayed—still skating, still searching for his own “Miracle on Ice,” a love story with a happy ending.

He’s a hockey player with a slapshot that could part the Dead Sea. One day, as we were walking back from the parlor, he dropped a line of wisdom that stayed with me:
“Picture this—you’re flying down the ice, eyes on the puck, locked in. Then out of nowhere, some goon tries to lay you out. You don’t think. You just react. No time for Shakespeare—it’s pure instinct, baby.”

It was classic Andrew—funny, vivid, and unexpectedly profound. His words reminded me of something I’ve come to believe more and more: that in crisis, the thinking mind often retreats. What remains is presence. Muscle. Breath. Reaction. And maybe, somewhere underneath it all, trust.

Majors Tom and Shay’s Daily Deliveries

Majors Tom and Shay, rolling up in their trusty white pickup truck, became our daily saviors—answering the call of growling stomachs with trays of hot, hearty meals. Though their setup mirrored the convenience of a military microwave operation, there was one delicious difference: the food was fresh, thoughtfully prepared, and more often than not, downright mouthwatering.

One meal, in particular, burned itself into my memory. I lifted the tray cover with the curiosity of a child unwrapping a long-lost toy, only to find a dish I hadn’t tasted since my mother’s kitchen—fried chicken liver with onions and mashed potatoes. My taste buds erupted in celebration. I devoured it like a bear emerging from hibernation, unapologetically joyful and wholly transported.

As I relished each bite, a small voice in my head warned of potential digestive repercussions the next morning. But in that blissful moment, I made peace with the future. Sometimes, joy is worth the risk—and this was one of those times.

Behind the scenes, keeping the entire machine running, were Ronii and Boaz—Nahal Oz’s tireless secretaries. Since our arrival at the evacuated kibbutz, they appeared daily like clockwork, managing the intricate web of logistics that sustained us. From arranging feed for the livestock to removing the remains of burned-out vehicles and fallen animals, they carried the weight of restoration on their shoulders. Thanks to them, the meals never stopped. Neither did the quiet, steady march of renewal.

The Petting Zoo Rescue

Discovering the forgotten animals in the petting zoo stirred something protective within us. On our first feeding mission, Yaniv, Andrew, and I—with Danna cheering us on via video call—felt like participants in a miniature, live-streamed rescue operation. We offered them whatever sustenance we could gather, including our generous leftovers, determined to bring comfort to these neglected creatures. Their grateful snorts and eager munching filled us with a quiet sense of purpose and accomplishment.

That feeling, however, was short-lived. When Andrew and I returned one afternoon in the third week, the enclosures were empty. The animals had been collected and transported to a nearby animal shelter. It was a bittersweet ending to our impromptu caretaking adventure—relief that they were safe, tinged with the quiet ache of farewell.

Learning Patience from Cows

At first, I dismissed the cows as unintelligent—creatures of habit, slow and unthinking. “Pretty stupid, aren’t they?” I remarked to Rani, a seasoned farmer, expecting an easy nod of agreement. But his gaze softened. “They’re actually quite smart,” he replied with a knowing smile. “Just observe closely.” His words planted a seed. I began to watch more carefully.

During that first week, I was intimidated. The cows were massive—tall, heavy, imposing. I kept my distance, circling around them and reaching over their backs just to guide them into the milking stalls. It felt awkward, even a little clumsy.

By the second week, confidence kicked in. “I’ve got this,” I thought, walking with purpose, tapping their flanks to get them moving. I was finding my rhythm, learning the flow.

But by the third week, Hans pulled me aside. We were moving the cows too quickly, too forcefully, he said. And a stressed cow? She gives less milk. “Be gentle,” he advised. “Patience matters.” So, I changed course. I began walking alongside them, letting my hand rest softly on their flanks, coaxing instead of commanding. The effect was immediate. The cows responded—less tension, more ease. It felt almost like dancing, a quiet, intuitive partnership.

There was one cow in particular who stood out—not just for her size, which prevented her from fully fitting into a milking stall—but for her behavior. She always waited until the end, watching calmly as the others filed in. Only when the crowd thinned would she enter, sidestepping into her usual awkward diagonal position, blocking two stations. It was as if she understood her limitations and adapted in a way that minimized disruption for the others.

That cow taught me something. Intelligence doesn’t always look like we expect. And patience—true patience—is often the quietest form of wisdom.

Holding On Through Fatigue

By the middle of the third week, a cloud of fatigue settled over me. The relentless physical demands, coupled with the emotional weight of the work, began to take their toll. I felt utterly spent—body aching, spirit wavering. Unsure if I could go on, I reached out to Izi, my childhood friend and lifelong confidant.

As always, Izi met my uncertainty with calm strength. “Finish it strong, Dudi,” he said—steady, sure. Just five words, but they landed with power. His quiet faith in me reignited something inside.

That was all I needed—a reminder of who I was, and why I was here. So I carried on, not just to finish, but to finish strong.

A Fractured Nation’s Grief and Grit

A week later, I bid farewell to Israel. Before leaving, I spent meaningful time with family and friends. One especially memorable visit was to Anat and Avi at their peaceful bed and breakfast village. Another day was dedicated to catching up with Izi—we visited the family of a fallen soldier and the volunteer center, Shlomi Abutbul, in Kadima Zoran. I also attended a family gathering at Kibbutz Nir Eliyahu, surrounded by my many cousins. And in between, there were rich conversations with old friends, some planned, some spontaneous.

Yet amid the joy of reconnection, a recurring theme kept surfacing: Bibi. Almost every conversation, no matter where it began, eventually veered into criticism of Netanyahu—sharp, impassioned, and relentless.

I understand that these frustrations come from a place of love for the country, from disappointment, fear, and the weight of unmet expectations. Still, the intensity of the discourse felt overwhelming. It was as if the entire nation was locked in a loop of anger and blame, unable to exhale.

Critique is vital in a democracy. But the saturation of negativity, the fixation on a single figure, felt corrosive—like a chronic inflammation in the national psyche. It saddened me to see so many dear friends, vibrant and wise, caught in that undertow. It made me wonder: What is the emotional cost of this kind of prolonged outrage?

Theology and the Path to Peace: The Two Faces of Jihad

People often ask how this conflict will end—what it would take to conclude the current war, and more broadly, what might finally bring peace. It’s a natural question, shaped by a Western mindset that assumes dialogue, diplomacy, and negotiation can lead to resolution or, at the very least, honorable compromise between nations.

But I’ve come to believe that this question may be the wrong one—at least for now. It rests on the assumption that both sides inhabit the same reality. And yet, much like the parallel worlds in The Matrix, these realities rarely intersect.

One worldview sees this land as a post-Holocaust sanctuary—fragile, hard-won, and open to difficult compromises for coexistence. The other sees it as occupied territory—land taken by force, awaiting eventual liberation from the river to the sea.

Real transformation, I believe, depends on a shift not just in policy but in theology and imagination. Specifically, it requires a reexamination of the concept of Jihad within Islam. While the Quran includes Jihad as a struggle against those who reject the faith—a notion often interpreted as holy war—this definition has, across centuries, been used to sanctify political violence against non-Muslims.

But Jihad has another meaning, one that speaks to the inner life: the spiritual and moral struggle to become a better person. This greater Jihad is about refining one’s character, tempering the ego, and aligning one’s actions with compassion and justice. It is about choosing mercy over vengeance, integrity over pride.

The Sufi mystic and poet Mevlana Rumi captured this beautifully:

“The lion who breaks the enemy’s ranks is a minor hero compared to the lion who overcomes himself.”

If the voices that champion this deeper interpretation of Jihad—this inner striving—can grow louder, a profound shift might follow. It would require courageous Islamic leaders to speak openly and reframe the conversation. Until then, the only pragmatic path may be the one we already walk: maintaining technological superiority and military readiness, living with vigilance, and preparing for the worst while praying for something better.

When I shared this view with my friend Amir, he shook his head and said, “This is a dream.”
I replied, “Yes, but we must keep dreaming.”

Trauma’s Quiet Echoes

How deeply does trauma take root in those who brushed up against the fire of October 7? For many who survived the horror, the battle didn’t end with rescue—it merely shifted inward. It continues to manifest in the body, the breath, the smallest triggers. Here’s a story that might prompt a chuckle—but it carries a heavy undertone.

My cousin Avital, her husband Amos, and their children and grandchildren were evacuated to a hotel in Eilat. Ten days later, Amos experienced sharp chest pains. Fearing a heart attack, he was rushed by taxi to a hospital in Jerusalem—a journey of five to six hours, through tense roads and towns not always friendly to Israeli Jews.

Now picture this: in the emergency room, three medical professionals quickly surrounded Amos, attaching wires and sensors while speaking to each other—in Arabic.

For most patients, this wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. Arabic is, after all, Israel’s second official language. Many Arab citizens serve as doctors, nurses, and paramedics throughout the country—a living model of coexistence in a land too often divided. But Amos had spent hours in a safe room on October 7, straining to hear the Arabic being spoken just outside the door. He understood enough to grasp the danger—he speaks the language—but in that moment, the sound of it was no longer neutral. It was a trigger.

Like a character in a dark comedy, Amos suddenly leapt off the stretcher, shouting, “I can’t take this anymore!” Panic surged. Nurses froze. Doctors stared. The emergency room descended into confusion as Amos tried to make a run for it, propelled not by logic but by the raw flashbacks of fear.

Eventually, the attending psychiatrist arrived to calm the situation—and yes, he too was an Arab Israeli. In the end, Amos got the care he needed, though his panic attack had turned his medical emergency into something almost cinematic.

Funny? A little. Surreal? Very. But beneath the absurdity is a painful truth: the echoes of October 7 continue to ripple outward. For those who lived it, even the most benign encounters—voices, sounds, faces—can resurrect fear. Healing will take time. Years, maybe more. And even then, some shadows may never fully lift.

Art as Reflection and Disquiet

A week after returning to Los Angeles, I found myself adrift—my mind caught between the turmoil of Israel and the familiar embrace of home. Suspended in this liminal space, I longed for the disquiet to ease. Seeking solace, I ascended the mountaintop to the Getty Center. The tram ride felt like a passage to a Greek temple—a pilgrimage to a sanctuary of quiet awe and curated beauty.

There, amidst sweeping views, manicured gardens, and halls of timeless art, I encountered the luminous, haunted world of William Blake—an obscure 18th-century English poet, printer, and visionary whose work, once overlooked, has since been revered by generations of seekers and scholars.

His story struck a chord. A self-taught innovator, Blake invented the “relief etching” technique and pursued his singular vision with quiet devotion, admired in his lifetime by only a small circle. I later discovered that my friend Mark, a pastor, carries Blake’s words close to his heart:

Eternity
He who bends to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

Blake’s imagination defied his era—and perhaps even his sanity. He didn’t merely depict the world; he unveiled portals to realms where angels struggled with serpents and children danced with spirits. The ordinary, through Blake’s lens, was anything but. It became mythic, volatile, sacred.

Leaving the exhibition, I carried a strange heaviness—as if his work had absorbed my unrest and reflected it back in fractured form. Was the unease Blake’s own, or did his paintings echo something raw and unresolved in me? Amid celestial visions and fiery landscapes, I saw not only his inner storms, but my own—war shadows, grief-laced memories, the quiet screams of a world unraveling.

This pain—this unrest—felt like the residue of a dream interrupted. A shimmer of dissonance flickered between the tranquil gardens of the Getty and the unspoken ache I brought with me. Was it Blake’s madness I was sensing, or the madness of our times—rendered in etched flames and visionary eyes?

In that moment, the lines blurred: artist and witness, creation and reflection. Perhaps Blake’s true genius lies not in clarity but in evocation—in his ability to stir our hidden questions, to press us gently into the shadows at the edges of our perception.

He does not comfort. He disturbs. And in doing so, he reminds us that imagination is not escape—it is confrontation. It is the mirror in which we meet ourselves.

👉 For a deeper reflection on Blake’s vision and relevance today, visit: William Blake: Visionary Art, Poetry, Genius And Timeless Legacy

Surrender Without Giving Up

Descending from the Getty Center’s upper platform, I was struck by the contrast in perspectives. The architecture’s sharp, geometric lines—rendered in pale beige stone—stood in stark relief against the winter foliage’s muted tones and organic shapes. Yet amidst all that beauty, a quiet heaviness followed me. Shadows seemed to cling to my thoughts, echoing the turbulence I carried within. My mind churned with worry about the unknown and the relentless inability to predict what comes next.

In that stillness, the idea of faith surfaced—not as dogma, but as a subtle, steady current anchoring my path. Faith as a whisper, even when doubt shouts louder. Faith as a compass, quietly guiding me back to light when the way feels lost.

Admiral James Stockdale, the decorated U.S. Navy officer and Vietnam War POW, offered one of the clearest frameworks for walking this inner tightrope. During his seven-year captivity, he found strength in what later became known as the Stockdale Paradox: an unwavering belief in eventual triumph, held alongside the discipline to face the harshest truths of the present.

“You must maintain unwavering faith that you can and will prevail in the end, regardless of difficulties,” he said, “and at the same time have the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.”

That paradox speaks to me. I’ve come to embrace the phrase “surrender without giving up.” It’s not about passivity. It’s about yielding to life’s tides without abandoning your vessel. It’s a quiet defiance that chooses acceptance over resistance—not because we don’t care, but because we’ve learned that rigidity breaks us.

To surrender without giving up means letting go of control, not commitment. It’s a form of spiritual aikido—absorbing the blow, redirecting the energy. It’s trusting that even when the road disappears beneath your feet, something deeper holds you. It’s the faith that strength can be soft, and that wisdom often whispers through uncertainty.

It’s not the absence of fear, but the courage to keep walking anyway.

As I reflect on the pain, the complexity, and the call to remain present in a fractured world, I’m reminded of Viktor Frankl’s teachings. His insistence that meaning can be found even in suffering has helped me navigate the unthinkable. For a deeper exploration, see this essay:
👉 Conversation with Viktor Frankl

March 2024

One year later: an updated reflection

Rebuilding from the Ground Up: Dairy Farms and the Choice to Grow

My friend and fellow volunteer at Nahal Oz, post–October 7 attack, sent me a recent news clip that says:

“We’d like to end with an optimistic message on the eve of Shavuot, the holiday of dairy. So, where do we stand in terms of rehabilitating the dairy farms? Have we returned to where we were on October 6th in terms of activity, output, and the sense of security among residents and workers?”

“We made a decision—actually, Agriculture Minister Dichter understood that the dairy farms are a symbol—and we decided that the dairies would lead the rehabilitation in the Gaza Envelope region. We significantly increased the milk quotas for the dairies in the region, and I’m happy to say that today, in 2025, all the dairies in the area are producing 25% more milk than they did on the eve of October 7th. All these dairies have undergone a wave of construction and rehabilitation, and I invite everyone to come and see the flourishing farms—it warms the heart a bit, amidst all the dark corners we still have. This is the good news: from the low point we were at on October 7th, we have managed, through joint efforts, to recover, grow, and thrive.”

My beloved Danna commented, “This story affirms Martin Seligman’s enduring insight: that we, as human beings, may not choose our traumas, but we do choose our response.”
Between posttraumatic stress and posttraumatic growth, there lies a fragile but powerful moment of agency. And in that moment, lives can be redefined.

👉 More from Martin Seligman on catastrophe responses.

My thoughts turned to the choices, decisions, and actions we take every day—and how they shape us, how they define who we become. In the aftermath of devastation, these dairy farms—quiet workhorses of everyday life—became unlikely symbols of resilience. Their resurrection was not merely economic. It was philosophical, even spiritual. A collective act of defiance against despair.

The question of human freedom—the ability to choose meaning in a world that often feels absurd or indifferent—has been explored by many great thinkers. One of them, Albert Camus, devoted much of his life’s work to this tension. In his existentialist philosophy, particularly in The Plague, Camus portrayed a world struck by chaos, loss, and uncertainty. And yet, he made it clear: meaning is not given—it is created through the moral courage of ordinary people.

Camus believed that even in a senseless world, our dignity lies in our response. We define ourselves not by what happens to us, but by how we choose to act in the face of it. He wrote:

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”

That invincible summer—the quiet, stubborn will to act with integrity despite the odds—can be seen now in the dairy farms. This was not guaranteed. It was chosen—built, poured, welded, and willed into being.

Viktor Frankl, who survived the darkest chapters of human cruelty, echoed this truth by pointing out that we each carry the power to choose how we live, love, and respond:

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”

The people of this region around Gaza—the farmers, the families, the volunteers—embodied that freedom. Not by showing off, but by showing up. Every day. To mend what was broken. To plant. To milk. To believe.

I could go on. But what fascinates me—and delights me, time and again—is how so many words of wisdom and truth, how all healing modalities, spiritual paths, and ancient traditions lead back to one thing:
They are all one—the big oneness we are all part of.

And perhaps what makes this recovery so moving: it isn’t loud or triumphant.
It is steady. Committed.
A quiet declaration that life, if nurtured, will go on.

May 2025